


Silence of the Flowers

by baekyuu m (baekyuu)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Existentialism, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Park Chanyeol-centric, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25994986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baekyuu/pseuds/baekyuu%20m
Summary: Chanyeol, fresh out of the psych ward, escapes his hometown to avoid re-living his traumatic past. Despite moving to an obsolete neighbourhood and planning for a quiet life, he soon found himself sucked into the loudest part of life—mingling in with those who smelt of sex and alcohol, facing the monsters inside his head, and meeting the demon boy from the darkest parts of the hell.
Relationships: Byun Baekhyun/Park Chanyeol
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Crosspost, author's notes from Chapters 1-10 are left as they have been published. One of my heaviest fics yet, please read the trigger warnings & tags before you proceed!
> 
> The first chapters are as old as from 2017 and I've been sporadically updating it, so I'm sorry if the grammar and tone are a bit janky. Nevertheless I do hope you enjoy my work!
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNINGS:** This story includes: non-explicit references of self-harm, themes of suicide, existentialism, themes of abuse (including sexual, physical, emotional and verbal forms), and substance abuse. Please heed carefully.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** All the characters in this fiction are not actual representatives (either mentally or physically) of those persons who it is based off of. All characters that may engage in consensual sexual themes or events are of the legal age (both according to age in this particular fiction and the age of persons in real life), and themes otherwise can claim artistic credit.

_”I switched the time zone, but what do I know?  
Spending nights hitchhikin, where would I go?”_

_Self Care, Mac Miller_

* * *

Chanyeol rubbed the pad of his thumb on his fingernails. They were rough and jagged, and he's pretty sure the nail-bed was already destroyed beyond function due to excess biting and clipping. He found solace in biting his nails. His mother and his therapist gave him an eye when they noticed it at first (after all, it was odd enough to find comfort in doing something so unhygienic). And after the nail's been reduced to just slithers, he moves on to biting off his cuticles, or peeling off layers of his nails, or biting the skin at the edges.

He's a little too lost in picking the jagged ends of his nail, and the other voice drowns in his ear. Occasionally he would slip his finger to bite the loose bit of the nail off, looking at his feet and noticing how they were as pale as the recently-cleaned white tiles of the floor.

"... _move... that?_ "

Chanyeol retracts his hand from his mouth and looks up.

"Huh?"

Kim Minseok sighs and took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and Chanyeol knows that he's been blanking out and Minseok would have to repeat whatever he said again (probably something long). The older man places his horn-rimmed glasses back atop of his nose and sighed.

"I said," the therapist says exasperatedly, "You're moving away, because you want to leave behind bad memories. Are you _sure_ about that?"

Chanyeol's eyes focus on the source of lighting in the room, the lights dim and faded. Though the overall whiteness of the whole interior itself, and the sunrays that filtered through the pale windows, was enough so that it competed with the poor light. It's a funny concept; you come here to be cleansed of your bad thoughts. White tiles, white walls, white curtains free of stains. They'll make you innocent again. They'll make you pure, _pure_...

"I've already talked it through with mama—I mean, my mother. S-She visited yesterday." Chanyeol says numbly, and the seething noise starts up in his head again. He visibly flinches and plays with his hands, pressing his lips tightly together so that only a thin line remained. He uncovers his gown sleeves to reveal a set of white scars and, as if ashamed somebody had saw it, pulled his sleeves to his wrist. "She said it's the best option for me."

"Now I understand that your..." Minseok began. Chanyeol's pupils darted fearfully across his eyes and Minseok clears his throat, "... _trauma_ was largely associated with where you live now. I acknowledge that it's filled with bad memories and it's not beneficial for your sake and being. However, having been your therapist for the past year, Chanyeol, I know that you don't like new things."

Chanyeol bit his lip.

"You're _afraid_ of new things." Minseok says, a little softer in his tone. "Moving away is a big step for you, and you'd be faced with a lot of unfamiliar things and you might—"

"I'm moving in with my sister." Chanyeol says, monotonous again. "I'm moving away from this place. Somewhere quieter. Where I—"

Chanyeol picked at his nail and swallows. "—where I won't break down again."

Minseok inhales very slowly, before he blows out of his mouth. Chanyeol knows that he's just working; therapists get paid to make people better. They're not exactly empath machines. They only act like they care, because they get paid for it. But Minseok took off his glasses and reached his hands out and took Chanyeol's fingers in his.

Chanyeol's sleeves retract as his arms stretch, and he looks at the patterns in his hospital gown so he didn't have to look at the white scars on his arm.

Minseok held his hands.

"So this is a goodbye, Chanyeol?" Minseok smiles, "I'm glad you're moving on."

Chanyeol didn't say anything. As soon as he was dismissed, he got out of the room, and the seething voice rings in his head again.

* * *

It's been exactly one year since he'd been hospitalised.

"Wow, moving away?" Sehun mumbles, scratching the back of his head, jealousy sounding through his voice. "Lucky you. I've got another month to serve."

"That's because you literally tried to top yourself off," Chanyeol mutters, "Purposefully slipping in the bathroom and banging the front of your head."

"Yeah," Sehun grins. Chanyeol glances at the bandages wrapped around his roommate's temples. They'd been friends for a few months, bunking in the same room, sneaking each other razors and a few extra pills. Though considering the many, _many_ scars Sehun bore, deeper and whiter than Chanyeol's deepest wound, he was pretty much worse off than Chanyeol.

"You uh..." Sehun smiled, a little falteringly. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah." Chanyeol nods, somewhat a little numbly. He's requested to say goodbyes, the nurse waiting outside his door. There wasn't really anyone he could say goodbye to. Just his one friend whom he shared stupid habits with, and coincidentally shared a passion for rapping and bowling—Chanyeol's only two interests. He wasn't exactly close to Sehun per se, having met him just as he had become hospitalised; but he had been a somewhat nice companion, and he was more appealing compared to the many inhabitants of the white-walled nuthouse.

"So..." Sehun pressed his lips together, crossing his arms. "...See you around?"

"Yeah." Chanyeol says gruffly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess, yeah."

"Yeah." Sehun dumbly repeats, before he smiles and raised his hand, pausing a little before he waves. "Yeah. Bye-bye, yeah."

"B-Bye." Chanyeol nods slowly, returning a weak smile, before he follows the nurse down the corridors. The roaming inmates within the corridors looked at him; they know. They know he's leaving, there's always that odd, stony look within the hospital residents. Everyone knows when you're leaving, because the nurses allow you to walk behind them and they don't hold your shoulders. They walk in front of you. But the inmates nod, as if congratulating him on his freedom, and resumed with their dull occupations.

It was a little hard to believe that Chanyeol would no longer be part of this life.

At least, for now.

They handed him his stuff; the stuff he brought a year ago, but deemed useless since the hospital provided everything he needed. He was given back the clothes he wore. His shoelaces. His year-old dead phone. 

As he slipped out of his hospital gowns and changed to his own clothes, he gave his former attire a long, last look: they'd be discarded. He'd no longer wear their uniform. The uniform meant labels on his forehead: he was the traumatised kid. The kid, who one year ago (that seemed like yesterday), went completely ballistic with the knife and earned himself a scar across his stomach. 

He'd still wear the label. But the strangers down the road won't see them.

At least not until they got close. 

His old clothes had always been baggy, though now they hung and draped over his frame as if they were curtains instead. There's still stuff in his pockets that remained when he came here. supposedly it'd been washed at some point by the staff, but when he pocketed his hands, he could feel dust and crumbs and loose change and a bent paperclip as residents inside his clothes.

He avoided looking at the mirrors. 

It feels somewhat breezy and empty. It felt like he'd been on a sleepover on someone else's house instead, and had to go home. 

It really wasn't.

It was like walking away from prison.

He's given his last set of prescription. As he was lead outside the wards, the fuzzy ringing starts up inside his head again. There's conversation the nurse had started a few seconds ago, but Chanyeol's brain had completely dulled over and his eyes were fixated on the tiled floor, and he picks at the jagged ends of his bitten fingernails. Eventually, of course, he brought his fingers to his mouth and chewed them anxiously, not knowing what to expect.

Daylight outside the windows.

The nurse leads him to a woman in red. A bad colour choice, of course, as the walls within the hospital were stark green and it contrasted uglily against her clothes. But her makeup was soon ruined and there's tears in her eyes, and Chanyeol's mind stops ringing.

"Hey, mama." Chanyeol mumbles, his voice wobbling. 

There's no tears, of course. There's never any tears from Chanyeol. But the ache starts up in his chest when his mother ran up to him in complete hysterics and embraced him with her skinny arms; the same ache he felt a year ago when he'd felt himself plunge the knife onto his own body. 

But the clouds in his head start to clear a little. So that's something new.

* * *

The first thing Chanyeol wanted when he got out was a haircut.

The hospital was ruthless with the rules. No shoelaces, no scissors—not even _safety_ scissors, no shoes, no zippers, no small buttons, no paperclips, no sweatpants bands. So a haircut within the hospital wasn't an option (Sehun gave him a razor once and both shaved with it—amongst many other stupid things they did with the razor—but he couldn't really risk a botched haircut). His hair really had grown unruly, curled against his temples. He'd nearly fallen asleep at the buzzing of the electric razor against the back of his head and the small sounds of _snip, snip, snip_ above his forehead, watching the hair strands fall through half-lidded eyes.

"Is it okay?" his mother voice resonates, and it trembled somewhat. "I'm hoping it looks like the haircut you really like, y-you know, the one you got before the—the—"

"It's fine." Chanyeol mutters sharply, almost jerking his head and spoiling his haircut. His mother offers him a watery half-smile and kept to herself for the rest of the process.

She didn't say much during the car ride. Nor did Chanyeol. Maybe the occasional " _Are you hungry? We can get some food.._." or " _Oh, look, that's the music festival we went to when you were eight, did you remember?_ ".

But it was what Chanyeol wanted. He didn't want to speak, and he didn't want his mother to pry. To a certain extent, he still somewhat hated his mother. Somewhat resentfully. After all, what happened a year ago was somewhat partly her fault. 

Chanyeol made it clear that it was partly her fault. She thinks it was, too. The agreement was mutual. The hate was still there and they're silent as ever.

The ringing starts up in his head again.

"O-Oh, I almost forgot to tell you." his mother cleared her throat, and Chanyeol watches her acrylic nails resting on the steering wheel. "I've... I've packed up your stuff. For you. You know, since... since you wanted to move away."

Chanyeol wonders the feeling of having nails as long as such. He'd probably bite all of it off.

"... I've got your... posters, and your favourite clothes, and everything. We're going to your sister's. You said you wanted to move, a-and, uh, I talked to her, and... she said you can move in, so... s-so I packed your stuff and I thought it'd be nice if you can stay at her's straight away. She lives down south, and she said it's pretty nice and quiet, and... and I thought it'd be better for you, since you said... you wanted quiet, and all—I mean, I mean if you don't like it and you want to move back in with me that's fine, but—"

"It's _fine_." Chanyeol interrupts, without looking at her. She looks at him, her lips pressed thinly; but eventually she just looked like a sad, forlorn bird and she nodded meekly, looking back at the road, her shoulders slumped. 

It was half the day's journey down south to his sister's, and Chanyeol constantly drifted on and off to the state of waking and sleeping. But the ride was filled with silence (except for the time they stopped for food and his mother asked what he wanted), and all Chanyeol could hear was the sound of himself chewing on his nails, and the continuous ringing inside his head that seems to get louder and louder every time he woke up from a short duration of unconsciousness, and he's started to see dots and little scribbles across his vision.

With a sharp inhale, he rummaged his hands into his bags and reached out for his antipsychotics and antidepressants, a little careless about the dosage and popping them into his mouth dryly. His mother stared at him as he did it; a bleak, weary look on her face. She reached out one hand to him, as if to say " _I'm sorry_ ", but the way that Chanyeol flinched away made her retract her hands.

It feels weird, sitting in a car fresh out of the ward, as if he didn't really spend a year hospitalised and he'd just been in his room inside his tiny dull house yesterday. Minseok was also right. As the night falls and Chanyeol was now much more conscious of things, he was a little anxious of the new streets that they passed through.

The buzzing was now searing through his head, but Chanyeol was used to it by now.

 _Clack_.

Chanyeol jerked.

 _Clack_.

Someone was throwing stones at their car. They'd slowed down, Chanyeol sensing that they've arrived to some sort of neighbourhood since his mother pulled off from the main junction. It was an unusually stark night outside, with no sort of light whatsoever besides their headlights, and even if Chanyeol squinted to see their faces, he could only make out blurry figures that were distinguishably darker from the rest of the background.

"Jesus Christ," Chanyeol heard his mother mutter, and she accelerated the car a little faster. Though it seems that whoever was throwing stones, they were not alone.

There were now five other figures Chanyeol could see distinctly. It's not only stones, now, but two of them had chased the car and started to hit the vehicle with sticks, or some sort of club. Chanyeol began to bite his nails, wary and unsure of this unknown neighbourhood. His mother had started to get a little irked too and she speeds up considerably.

But it'd been so dark that the headlights didn't go far out enough, and as soon as she sped up, a figure of a boy came into their view before the car struck him down, and the brakes screeched.

"Oh my _God_!" his mother screamed, instantly covering her mouth. Chanyeol was taken aback too, aghast, a deep frown marring his face.

Though just as soon as his mother reached the door handle to check up on the poor boy they've struck down, the figure got up again, now bearing blood across his face. With the sourest, most _devilish_ look in his eyes Chanyeol had ever witnessed, he growled and bared his teeth before he bludgeoned the front of the car, denting the hood and cracking the headlights, before he seethes and flashed Chanyeol's mother with his middle finger.

Chanyeol couldn't hear what he said, as the sounds were silenced by the interior of the car, but by the way his mouth moved and his face contorted into a morbid expression, Chanyeol could guess it wasn't something entirely nice, directed at his mother.

They continued to beat up the car and Chanyeol's mother was eventually forced to steer out as fast as she could, making sure she didn't run anyone down this time. They were chased for a few minutes, Chanyeol hearing the clacking of stones against the back of the car window, but it seemed as if they gave up after they turned to another block.

"God—out this time and up to no good—" his mother mutters underneath her breath.

They eventually pulled up in front of one of the houses, cramped and jointed in rows. His mother honked the horn (to which Chanyeol flinched to) and the window of the house alights, before a young woman emerges out of the door a few seconds after, in her nightgown and a towel wrapped around her head, a cigarette hanging off her lips.

Chanyeol bit the last of his fingernails before he blew out a harsh breath, grabbing his bag and exiting the car. He got out immediately, stomping his way up the porch before the young woman blocks his way, and Chanyeol growls exasperatedly.

"Hey, hey, hey, where're you goin'?"

" _Move_." Chanyeol grumbles. The woman huffs and crossed her arms in front of her breasts.

"At least give your big sister a hug before you dump your ass in the house." the woman rolled her eyes. Chanyeol lets out a huff before he wraps his arms around her, flinching at the smell of shower products and perfume and smoke, before he lets go and rubbed himself off, barging into her house.

"Wow." she scoffs, puffing at her cigarette. "Asshole."

"Don't be too hard on him, Yura," her mother sighs, getting out of the car, crinkling her nose at the sight of her eldest child smoking. "He's been through a lot, go easy on him."

"Yeah, yeah, I won't make him sleep on the couch or feed him rat poison, no biggie." she snorts, before she pressed her lips tightly, sighing. She looks around, as if watching whether Chanyeol was listening in or not, before she gently took ahold of her mother's elbow just as she stepped up the porch.

"Is he okay?" Yura whispers quietly.

Her mother looked down at the wooden floorboards of the porch, painted white and slightly stained with mud. She closed her eyes, and she breathed to suppress a sob, before she shudders. The wind whistled between the fence.

"Let him take his time to heal." she whispers back.

* * *

Chanyeol's things didn't consist of much else, besides his room decoration and his clothes, but his mother promised to come back another day with more of his things. With the look of a sad, forlorn bird, she got into the car and waved goodbye, insisting that she'll drive home for the night despite half a day's journey needed to go back home.

Chanyeol had taken up residence in Yura's spare room, and had silently unpacked his stuff without saying a word. Yura had only watched, not much help at all, leaning onto the doorframe, and hadn't bothered to speak to Chanyeol either.

It wasn't like they had a straining sibling relationship. In fact, both were bonded very closely, though it'd always been this way. Silent, and unspeaking. 

"Oh," Yura raised both of her eyebrows, as if remembering something. "There's something you should know."

Chanyeol, in the middle of unboxing a lamp, stopped in the middle of his actions, looking at Yura.

"Mama and that bastard divorced," she says softly, and she could see Chanyeol flinching at the mention of the latter and he'd almost dropped the lamp. She knows how much the topic affects him so, and she speaks with a gentle tone. "You know. After you've gone to the hospital and all that... we filed him off. He's in jail now. For... you know, for what he's done. To _you_."

"He could've been eradicated from his Earth for all I care," Chanyeol mutters under his breath, and Yura could see his hands starting to shake. Yura watched, exhaling through her nose before she approaches her little brother, taking hold of his hands. Chanyeol usually hated physical contact; he always did, for some reason, until the truth spilled out one year ago. She ruffled her brother's hair.

"I'd do anything to condemn him to hell, too." she says, and she sighs. "But he can't touch you now."

Chanyeol pressed his lips thin and set down the lamp with shaking hands, breathing slowly. He seems to stare at the floorboards for a while before he slipped a finger onto his lips, chewing on the nail that was barely there, ripping off the skin so the damaged flesh bled a little. He swallows and he ran a finger through his hair, sniffing as of he was in shame, looking away.

"Sometimes," he speaks softly, "Sometimes I can still feel him touch me. At night. Even when he's not there. My face. My throat. My mouth, my hands, my knees, between my legs—"

The ringing sound starts up in his head again and he clenches his teeth.

* * *

The household didn't settle down until 2 in the morning, with Chanyeol locking himself up in the bathroom for a full thirty minutes for something inexplicable, Yura coaxing him out, and both of them watching the box set in full silence. Occasionally, Yura would often have outbursts of dialogues, telling Chanyeol of what had happened in her life as of recent and what he'd missed during the past year. Then she'd go silent again and fixes her eyes on the screen.

Eventually, Chanyeol bored himself out of his wits and since the ringing sound starts up again, he excuses himself up to his now new bedroom, half-decorated with the floor littered with unpacked things. He clutched his head and crashed himself on the bed.

It's ultimately better than the hospital beds he'd slept in for a year. Those had really wanted to kill his spine.

Out of fear, he never slept with the lights off. He burrowed himself under the blankets and lied down on his stomach, biting the nails his teeth could scavenge. The seething, wheezy sound in his head seems persistent and it didn't seem to want to go away, despite Chanyeol's best efforts trying to fall asleep and doze it off.

 _Clack_.

Somebody's throwing pebbles at the window, but the ringing was too dizzying for Chanyeol to even care about it right now.

 _Clack_.

Chanyeol groaned, pressing the heels of his palm onto his forehead, as if to make the noise inside his head go away. He curls his legs towards his chest and he shut his eyes tightly. Normally, a nurse would've noticed immediately and help him; sedate him, maybe—but this isn't the hospital. And Yura probably had dozed off downstairs to hear him hissing through his teeth and groaning.

"Shut up, _you're not in control of me anymore!_ " Chanyeol screams into the pillow, banging his head against the headboard. 

The noise suddenly stops, silenced.

 _Clack_.

Chanyeol scrambled into one of his bags for his medication.


	2. The Obsolete

_”You shouldn’t talk back to your mother,  
Or you might get smacked by your mother._   
_Cut a little slack for your father,_   
_’Cause he’s never comin’ back.”_

_Blame, Jesse Rutherford_

* * *

_Hands. Unholy, God-disapproving hands moved across his body, like black ink tainting white linen. They move like a snake, slithering against his thighs, poisoning him with venom. He tried to kick, flail, anything to set him free—but his struggles were restrained by ropes that tied tight around his body. The bed beneath him felt solid, as if he was laying on the pavement. He wanted to cry, but he was already crying._

_“Please,” he begged, “Please, please, stop, please stop—"_

_The devil ignored his plea. The monster enclosed its claws on his thighs and he kept getting closer, closer—_

“STOP IT!”

Chanyeol woke with sheer terror and the sound of shattering glass exploded in his ear, like a horrible, agonizing scream. Flashes of white surrounded his vision and he gasped for air, looking around for the devil, before he met his sister’s stone cold eyes and he made sense of the room around him.

“Hi,” his sister deadpanned.

Chanyeol looked around, stunned into a silence. Yura had a tray on her hands, but whatever was on there must’ve dropped onto the floor because it was wet. Chanyeol looked at the floor to see a shattered bowl, the floor covered in soup and vegetables. Furniture and unboxed items stared at him around the room.

“That must’ve been painful,” Yura said, pointing to Chanyeol’s hand.

Chanyeol looked down and saw that his hand had strands of hair. He frowned and felt his head, pressing his lips together when he felt a patch of his scalp where he must’ve (somehow) pulled the hair from in his sleep. The sharp ringing started in his ears again and he groaned, pushing himself out of bed and barging past Yura to go to the bathroom.

He pulled out his pills from his pocket and smacked it into his mouth. He turned the sink on, cupped his hands to gather water and poured it into his mouth to swallow the pills. Chanyeol slapped his face with the cold water several times, as if trying to reset his body's systems, and it seemed to work as the ringing sounds stopped.

He leaned over the sink, trying to catch his breath. He looked disdainfully at his hand, which still had strands of hair intertwined in his fingers, and he picked them off disgustedly.

Yura appeared leaning on the bathroom door, sans the tray. She looked at her brother with an unreadable expression on her face.

“I didn't know it was that bad,” she said, her voice somewhat a mutter. Chanyeol had knew her long enough to know that this wasn't some sort of comment, but a concern. Chanyeol looked at her momentarily before he stared down at the sink again, as if fascinated by the water droplets on the porcelain.

Yura scratched her ankle with her other foot.

“You spooked me, by the way,” she continued, “That's why I dropped the tray. ”

“Sorry.”

Yura shook her head dismissively, waving her hand off. She walked away, back to Chanyeol's room, presumably to clean up the mess.

That's the way it had always been, their sibling bond. To the outside eye it seemed concerningly awkward, or rude, but the siblings preferred it this way. Chanyeol knew how to differentiate between actual nasty comments and when Yura really cared about him. He liked their communication this way: stoic and deadpan. It made his life easier.

Well, it wasn't always this way. Chanyeol was a bit more chirrupy, definitely living life with more colour a few ways back. Then after the incident—

Or the _series of incidents_ —

Chanyeol didn't want to think about it.

Anyways, everything changed. Chanyeol felt numb after that. The antidepressants prevented him getting sadder, but it didn't get him any happier.

By the time he returned back to his (new) bedroom, Yura had disappeared, and so did the spillage.

He continued to unpack where he'd left off from yesterday. His mother had somehow managed to disassemble his desk and pack it into a box, amongst with other furnitures, so he spent a few good hours doing that. Chanyeol tried his best to replicate his old room, sticking up his posters and even arranging his pencils down to exactly what it had looked like where he left it a year ago.

Then it came.

_Clack_.

Chanyeol's head whipped to look at the window.

_Clack_.

Pebbles clanged against the window pane in regular intervals, and Chanyeol was suddenly reminded of last night's drive where a couple of boys had surrounded his mother's car and threw pebbles at them. Curious, and somewhat afraid, he got up and opened the window, cursing as he struggled to figure out how the hell he would prise it open.

Just as he opened it, however, he heard Yura shouting profanities from downstairs, followed by tires screeching. Chanyeol didn't open the windows in time to see who threw the pebbles, but he did catch a glimpse of a beaten-up Chevrolet speeding off into the distance. He poked his head out of the window, frowning, trying to make out the figures in the black-tinted windows, though the car was now far too small in the distance to look at.

Chanyeol briskly skipped downstairs, finding the entrance door open with his sister fuming. Yura sighed and pinched her nose, shutting the door before retreating to the couch, almost collapsing into the cushions.

“Boys,” she said, before Chanyeol could ask her anything, “They bring nothing but trouble.”

“I thought ma said this was an obsolete neighbourhood.”

“That's what I thought before I moved here,” Yura yawned, “But that's what they advertise it as, because the boys kept terrorising the residents so they started to move out, and they need people to move in here for the profit.”

Yura shrugged before she rolled to her stomach and reached for the television remote, “I’m assuming they saw you move in and they don't like that, so that might be why.”

“Aren't you…” Chanyeol raised his eyebrow, “ _Worried_?”

“No, if you shout at them loud enough they'll leave you alone.”

Chanyeol sat down on the arm of the couch, since Yura had sprawled all over it. Yura had on some sort of documentary and both of them sat there for a while in silence, completely unmoving, before Yura picked up the conversation again as if they didn't just have half an hour of silence.

“You plan on going back to school?” Yura asked him.

Chanyeol sighed. It was a somewhat important question. He had dropped out when he got hospitalised, and going back to school meant redoing a year. He didn't really want to go back to school anyways. During the… series of incidents, he had isolated himself completely to the point that he had no contact with any of his friends anymore. So that was that.

“No,” Chanyeol shook his head, “I might just do online courses instead. Or get a job.”

“That's cool,” Yura nodded into the cushions, “You still doing appointments?”

“With the doc? Yeah,” Chanyeol nodded, a little glum as he was reminded that he still needs to go to therapy.

“Cool.”

Then silence again.

Chanyeol sat there, half-listening to the television. A low hum started to sound in his ears, starting off soft, and it continued like that for a couple of minutes. As he spaced out more and more, the sound grew louder and louder, filling his head before it flooded into the floor of the room. All he could see in his vision was noise, like ants crawling around the room, engulfing him with some sort of invisible power, before the ants scattered and Yura's voice silenced the ringing noise.

Chanyeol swivelled his head slowly to look at Yura.

“I've been calling you for a full _minute_ ,” she said.

“Sorry.”

Silence.

“Why don't you go around and see what the neighbourhood's like?” Yura suggested, “You can go to the stores and pick out something you like.”

Without waiting for Chanyeol's response, she went to bend down to the table next to her and dug into what must've been her purse, before she pulled out a few bills and smacked it onto Chanyeol's hand. Yura collapsed back into the couch and sighed, cozying herself up in it.

“Call me if you're lost,” Yura said, “And please don't kill yourself.”

Chanyeol scoffed.

“I'll try.”

“I mean it,” Yura raised an eyebrow.

Chanyeol shrugged.

* * *

He changed into something warmer before venturing outside. Looking around, he debated whether he should turn right or left, before deciding that it doesn't matter and followed his nose to wherever it lead him.

It was a pocket neighbourhood, with a little suburban-esque touch to it. It was nice, quiet, and totally brand-new to Chanyeol, and it made him content. It was a fresh start to life, and it just felt like he left everything in the past behind him so that it would no longer haunt him.

_You're_ afraid _of new things_.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Chanyeol said aloud, and hit his head with his knuckles once he had realised what he had done. That's what his therapist—Minseok—had said to him not too long ago.

It wasn't as if Chanyeol didn't know that moving away meant _nothing_. He just pretended that it _meant_ something. He knows moving away won't solve any problems. A new slate wouldn't magically make his nightmares disappear, or his breakdowns stop. Things would still remind him of his… _trauma_. Moving away, in fact, was just a more elaborate version of running away from the problem, but Chanyeol really didn't want to think about it that way.

Chanyeol raised his hand to his mouth and began to chew his nails.

He was too wrapped up in his thoughts to realise where he had been going, but it seems as if he landed where he wanted to. There was a small commercial part of the neighbourhood, denoted by shops. The neighbourhood’s obsoleteness really reflected with the shops—they were full of things but barren of customers, save for the few that seemed to walk very slowly as they tried to find what they want to buy.

It reminded Chanyeol of the hospital. Despite its numerous inpatients, it all seemed so barren and lonely. Time didn't seem to exist, and whenever it did, it passed like a snail. It did give Chanyeol some time to think, but most of the time it gave Chanyeol _too_ much time to think, and that's when he would start to rub the scars around his arms and _think_ about whether he could ask Sehun if he could borrow his razor… if he had one.

Chanyeol slowly raised the sleeve of his hoodie now, enough just for one singular scar to peek through. It was a deep one—it protruded like some sort of mountain, raised a little too high. It was big enough so that Chanyeol could pinch it and pull it up. He remembered that when he got it stitched up, the doctor said that it was unlikely it was ever going to fade with age.

His arms started to _feel_ itchy, so he lowered his sleeves quickly to push away his urges. He's only just gotten discharged, and he had no plans of going back to the hospital ever again.

Chanyeol entered a convenience store, looking around, and it hit him how much he has missed normal civilisation activities like _visiting stores._ Looking at the rows at the different aisles had reminded him that he hadn't ate some things in a whole year, and a small bit of excitement was sparked inside him. He visited every aisle, reminding himself of his favourite snacks, every brand and every sold item in store, picking them up and examining them.

In the hospital, it was the same old bed, same old utensils and food, and maybe paper and pencil if you're lucky.

He grabbed a few of his favourite snacks and paid for them, consuming them immediately as he got out of the store. Chanyeol hadn't ate all day, and it was a trip down the memory lane as he tasted the foods he hasn't tasted for a year.

He weaved in and out of every shop, finding a little happiness in experiencing life for the first time in a year. Yura had given him just enough so that he could have a little freedom in what to buy. Even paying at the till felt like a whole new experience for him. The colours felt great on his eyes; it's a nice contrast compared to the hospital's sickly white.

He takes one last trip to the last store, trying to see if there was anything in there that was worth buying with his last few change. Picking up a pack of biscuits, he looked at it for a few seconds before deciding that he'd buy it, looking around to look where the cashier was.

Then something hooked his gaze.

It was… the most _crystalline_ eyes he had ever seen.

It wasn't beautiful. It was actually some sort of a shock. It was as if the eyes were piercing right through you and was looking at objects that was right behind you. They were so dark that it made the eye whites seem so gleaming, like a piece of glass reflecting the sun.

The eyes were so sharp and it made it so hard to focus on everything else. Chanyeol could make out the appearance of a boy in his vision; dark-haired, with the skin pulled tight around his face. The boy's hair fell in places on his forehead, and he had what seemed to be permanent stoicity carved into his face. There was at least one bruise with every revealed piece of skin the boy revealed, and there seemed to be a large cut on his forehead, poorly covered by a bandaid.

_Cut… forehead… bandaid_ …

“I—”

Chanyeol's voice croaked.

It was the boy that his mother had accidentally rammed with her car last night. He seemed to have escaped it unscathed, but the venomous, evil look in his eyes made Chanyeol feel fearful.

“I'm sorry,” Chanyeol said, though he himself wasn't entirely sure on what he was saying.

The boy just kept staring at him.

A little uncomfortable, Chanyeol set the pack of biscuits down and exited the store. He kept looking back to see if the boy had followed him, and sighed in relief when he didn't see anyone coming after him.

Yet those eyes—those gleaming, piercing eyes—had burned into Chanyeol's head forever.

A little spooked by the encounter, he decided that it was the end of his venture and was time to go back to the house. Yet no matter how much Chanyeol tried to wipe it off his mind, he could still see those eyes piercing through his cranium, right into his brain.

* * *

Nightfall came around, and Chanyeol had done nothing for the past few hours but chew on his nails as his eyes fixed itself onto the television screen. The noise had began in his head again, like a loud life intervention, but to Chanyeol it felt like he was enveloped with another realm altogether.

Biting his nails couldn't even be called a habit anymore. To him, now it was just a reflex, like swallowing. Every other time, his teeth had to grind on dead keratin, and he didn't even think about it anymore when he did it. It was just, _chew, chew, chew_ , move on to the next finger, and if he ran out of fingers then he moved to the other hand.

Yura was in the kitchen, phone tucked between her head and her shoulder, stirring something on the frying pan. The sizzling was loud enough to drown out whatever she was saying, so Chanyeol's couldn't pick up whatever she was talking about. She did, however, take a glance at him a few seconds at a time, so Chanyeol could assume that Yura was talking about him on the phone.

Realistically, there's only one person Yura would speak to about him.

“Hey,” his sister waved at him, interrupting the ringing in his ears, “Ma's on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”

_Called it._

“No,” he declined without skipping a beat. He hated his mother. She was deadbeat for everything that he went though. She didn't even try to help him, up to the very last moment. Chanyeol made it clear that she wasn't wanted in his life anymore, yet the woman kept trying to be involved in his life.

“Please?” Yura said, pleading, “Just for a few minutes.”

He sighed and took the phone from Yura's hands. He looked at it for a few seconds, knowing fully well that he could press the _end call_ button right now just with his thumb. After a few moments, he raised the phone to his ear and cleared his throat.

“Hi,” he said dryly.

“ _Oh, Chanyeol, baby, hello… hello, hi_!” his mother sounded at the other end. She sounded forlorn, but tried to be upbeat with her tone. It just didn't work out.

“ _Hi… hi sweetie, how are you? Are you… are you doing okay?_ ”

Chanyeol narrowed his eyes, even though his mother couldn't see it.

“Yeah,” he deadpanned. He could imagine his mother tensing up from his response, clutching her hand to her chest, both tender and afraid at the same time.

_“I hope you find the neighbourhood okay. A-And I hope that… t-that Yura is taking care of you well, okay? And if y-you need anything, you can call me anyti—_

“I will _not_ ,” Chanyeol interrupted her. Years ago, he would've felt bad, but now it didn't matter to him.

“ _Sweetheart_ —”

“I survived without you intervening my life before, I'll be fine without you for the rest of my life,” Chanyeol snapped. There was a gasp at the end of the line; but it wasn't a shocked gasp or anything like that. It was some sort of upset gasp, like a precedent of a sigh.

“ _Chanyeol_ …” there was a momentary pause, _“I know you're still mad at me, for all of these years. I t-take responsibility for what I've done. I've been a bad mother, I didn't do anything when… when your father did all those a-awful things to you… but if there's something, anything I can do to earn your forgiveness… sweetheart? Sweetheart, are you okay?”_

Chanyeol had started to hyperventilate, and he wasn't even registering what his mother was saying anymore. The mention of his father had twanged his mind back to all those scenarios where he was under agony within the past few years, and his vision was now filled with white flashes; fragments of horrible, horrible memories, sounds, voices, feelings. Chanyeol began to panic as his vision swam, and he clawed the air as he heard footsteps. A pair of black, polished shoes appeared just by the edge of the doorframe of the room, and Chanyeol's eyes travelled shakily upwards to look at the legs, the lower torso, the body...

"Chanyeol! Chanyeol, look at me. Look at me,” Yura's face enclosed into his grainy vision. Chanyeol realised the hot tears that had streamed down his cheeks and he was tightly gripping Yura's hands. Chanyeol trembled, gasping for air, listening to Yura's voice drown out the sounds in his head. Eventually, the images disappeared, and the figure at the doorstep began to fade away, and Chanyeol broke into sobs.

“It's okay, it's okay. You're safe now,” Yura pulled her baby brother into her embrace, and he lets Chanyeol cry onto her shoulders. Their mother's concerned voice continued to sound on the phone, and Yura rolled her eyes before she ended the call, returning her hand to slowly rub her brother's back.

“I'm sorry. You were right. I shouldn't have made you answer her call,” Yura murmured softly. Chanyeol said nothing, hiccuping onto her shoulders, messily wiping his years with his sleeves.

“Sleep,” Chanyeol uttered gutturally, pulling away to look at Yura's confused face, “I'm going to sleep.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright,” Yura nodded, “I got something that can help you with it.”

Yura escorted her brother upstairs, setting him down on the bed. She went to the bathroom and reached into the cabinets, rummaging around for sleeping aid pills. Once she found them, she popped one off the tab and came to her brother's room, handing him the pill.

“Thanks,” Chanyeol said tearily. He already had his other medication in his hand, and he swallowed them one by one dryly. Once he's finished them off, he leaned into Yura's arms, crying softly as his sister soothed him, ruffling his hair or rubbing his back.

Eventually, his cries subdued and his body became a little heavy on Yura's arm, denoting that he had fallen asleep.

Yura carefully set her brother down, placing his head on the pillow. She pulled the covers on him and patted his back before she stood up, sighing.

Chanyeol was a few considerable years younger than her, but to her eyes, he was still her baby brother. The more terrifying realisation was the fact that he was more fragile than he was ever before—even more than he was as a newborn, when Yura first held him and thought he was as small as a doll.

Yura looked out of the window, pressing her temple against the cold pane, sighing. She sought out the stars, looking at them thoughtlessly for a few moments, before her eyes caught into something as equally as bright, and she locked eyes with a boy outside her house.

Yura stared at him for a while, scoffing to herself, dismissing it as one of those boys. She pulled him the biggest frown she could muster before she looked at Chanyeol's sleeping figure one last time.

She left the room, without turning the lights off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers. I'm back in showbiz baby. You might not like it but that's life.
> 
> I have no beta and I am kind of stupid sometimes, also this is 02:29am lol, sorry if there's any mistakes.
> 
> PLEASE DO... leave comments... I miss everyone it's been a while since I wrote.


	3. The Boy from Hell

_“Sooner or later I'm gonna get anxious again,  
And I tried to fake it but I'm not the greatest at that, no.”_

_Drama, Jesse Rutherford_

* * *

Chanyeol stared at his bedroom ceiling. It was one of those popcorn ceilings, where the surface contained uneven, rough particles, to be reminiscent of popcorn. It didn’t bother him that much, but he wondered how it would feel, running his hands through the bumpy surface. It would probably feel like running his hands through his arms; bumpy and uneven with scars.

If it were up to him, he’d love to scrape it all off.

The white noise had started again, deafening his ears. The docs said it was tinnitus; there wasn’t much he could do about it. He remembered a time where he didn’t have to hear this grainy, broken-television noise. His father probably had damaged him so much that his ears couldn’t help but break, too. He had liked to damage a lot of things; tables, chairs, picture frames, glass, his own son, and a plethora of other things that Chanyeol couldn’t quite remember. If he was here right now, maybe he’d start scraping off the ceiling.

Chanyeol had mixed feelings about the noise in his ears. While a nuisance, sometimes he enjoys its company. It deafened his thoughts, and made him feel infinitely calmer. Sometimes he’d purposefully turn on a radio and tune into a channel that doesn’t receive any wavelengths, and he’d listen to it all day. It never failed to drown his thoughts, and it drowned out other people’s voices, too. Though sometimes, it becomes more of an annoyance than enjoyment, and that's when he’d start slapping around his ears and cheeks to make the noise stop.

He laid in bed, staring at the light that had been left on. He wondered about what he was going to do. While it’s perfectly possible that he could leech off his sister forever, he’d feel guilty in the long run. He thought about taking cyber classes—going back to school was just a no. Maybe he could get a job so he can just buy his own stuff. Currently, according to Yura, their mother sends her payments to accommodate Chanyeol’s costs. That alone made Chanyeol’s blood boil. He just doesn’t want his mother to be a part of his life anymore.

And his mother—

Chanyeol turned around to lie down on his stomach and suffocate into the pillow. He didn’t want to think about his mother.

At that moment in time, the door sounded with a knock, and Yura entered. She was freshly dressed, but Chanyeol wasn’t able to see that, because his face was downwards. He closed his eyes, remembering yesterday’s events where he had fell into a panic attack—he hoped that Yura wasn’t coming here to discuss it. He felt Yura’s presence stand by the bed and she shook Chanyeol by his shoulder.

“Hey. It’s Monday, I’m off to work and I won’t be back til’ six,” she says in her monotone voice. She seems to have moved on from what happened yesterday—or was tactful enough not to talk about it, “Keys are on the table if you go out. You heard that?”

Chanyeol doesn’t respond. When Yura knocked, he pretended to have stopped breathing, because that’s where both of their humour is. Yura’s mouth just pulls into a thin line and kicked her younger brother in the rib, which made Chanyeol yowl in pain. To Chanyeol, though, it didn’t matter—when he got hospitalised, Yura was the only one who hadn’t changed her attitude towards him. Everyone else either mocked him or softened out of pity. So Yura was still an asshole.

“Don’t kill yourself while I’m out, you don’t know how much paperwork and cleaning that is,” Yura snorted, walking away. Chanyeol turned his head and peeped his eyes a little.

“You really trust me to do that?”

“I have talked to God, he said that you have to,” Yura deadpanned, before she left downstairs. Chanyeol snorted, without smiling. That’s why he valued his sister a lot. She just never changed. The only person he wouldn’t want to let down was Yura—when Chanyeol saw her face first when he had gotten hospitalised, he had vowed to never hurt his sister’s feelings again.

The sound of a car sounded—presumably Yura’s car—and it left off into the distance. Chanyeol was now alone.

Not really sure what to do for the rest of the day, he continued to lay in bed, twiddling his thumbs, wondering whether he should fix breakfast for himself or explore more of the neighbourhood. A little lost on his own thoughts, he got tired of thinking and eventually closed his eyes again, falling into unconsciousness.

* * *

When Chanyeol woke up again, it was because a sound roused him up from sleep.

 _Clack_.

_Clack._

_Clack._

He was about to ignore it, before his eyes opened wide in realisation. He froze in shock, not really knowing what to do, because whoever was doing it was doing it continuously at regular intervals.

Chanyeol remembered Yura calling them “the boys”, and remembered about the boys who stoned their car and linked them together. Then Chanyeol remembered about the boy who he saw at the square; the boy who looked like he had saw everything unpleasant in this world, and all those perceptions had been compressed and hardened into diamonds and was shoved into eye sockets. It wasn't impressive; it was a horrifying experience just looking at them.

_Clack._

_Clack._

_Clack._

Chanyeol gritted his teeth, annoyed by now, and he came up to open his window and look outside. Just as he stuck his head out to see whichever bastard was doing it, however, he couldn't see anything, or anyone. If he squinted, he could see pebbles left on the ground floor, but there was nobody throwing it, and whoever it was they have stopped.

Chanyeol scratched his head, wondering if he was seeing things. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and closed the window, scratching the back of his head. He turned around and saw a pair of eyes staring at him.

“FUCK!” Chanyeol hollered, screaming as he fell backwards, collapsing his head into the window. He dropped into the ground, gasping at the pain that had struck the back of his head. He grasped his hair, panting hard, looking up to see who had spooked him greatly.

A pair of eyes could never possibly glint, but these ones did, and they were blinding. They weren't special—they were dark brown, much like Chanyeol's own, but there was something so upsetting and sinister about them that made Chanyeol so very afraid. Even though they were hidden under bangs, they shine through the hair strands, and Chanyeol just felt as if he was locked onto the ground by daggers.

“Who—” Chanyeol gulped, panting, “What—What the fuck _are_ you?”

The boy was slight—just a head shy of Chanyeol's height. The skin was pulled tight onto his skull, apparent by his jagged face, and there was this unpleasant grimace on his face. He smelled both of smoke and cleanliness, and his presence was the loudest white noise Chanyeol has ever visually experienced in his whole life. The boy gave a vibe; almost like a devilish, cultist atmosphere, and Chanyeol was so very scared.

Chanyeol's mouth went dry. He hasn't even asked the most important questions yet. How did this boy get inside the house without him knowing at all? And two—was he about to die? This boy looked like he overthrew God and usurped all his powers, and Chanyeol was uncomfortable with that.

“I'm sorry,” Chanyeol blurted out. He wasn’t sure what he was saying sorry for; maybe about his mother hitting him with the car, or just the fact that his mere existence was somehow a bother to the boy. The boy just stared and stared at him and Chanyeol wanted him to stop, because the boy’s aura was just so painful to be in contact with and Chanyeol felt like dying.

The boy’s hands moved fast and Chanyeol closed his eyes, fearing for his life. There was a thump on his thigh, followed by a rustle, and sensing the absence of death and agony, Chanyeol opened his eyes.

A pack of biscuits rested on his knees—Chanyeol was confused.

Chanyeol looked up to the boy. Chanyeol had expected expected him to hurt him—or kill him. Maybe that was a bit too much but Chanyeol genuinely thought so. The boy looked like he had finished his business, and, without saying a word, he left.

“Wait—“ Chanyeol gasped, groaning in pain as he got up. He was still dizzy from his collapse, but he willed for his legs to run. He whizzed downstairs, trying to catch the boy before he left—but when he got outside he just got hit by a cloud of dust that left him coughing, and the next time he opened his eyes, a tattered Chevrolet zoomed past him and disappeared into the distance before Chanyeol could blink.

Chanyeol wheezed for breath, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the dust. What on earth was that for? He puts his hands on his hips, panting as he bent down, shaking his head before he retreated back. In the living room, he noticed that the window was down and there were footprints on the windowsill; a telltale that whoever that was, he had broken in.

Bastard.

Chanyeol sighed, closing up the window. He wondered whether Yura should know about this, before he decided no and wiped off the shoe prints from the sill.

 _What was that for?_ It was anyone’s guess what that boy had been intending to do. Chanyeol returned upstairs to find the pack of biscuits that the boy had thrown him, and he pressed his lips together when he saw that it was the same pack of biscuits that he had been considering to buy yesterday; the boy must’ve saw him drop it. But did he really _have_ to break in to give it to him? Was this an act of kindness? But Chanyeol sure felt like dying when he stared up to the boy’s eyes—was the latter trying to _kill_ him with kindness? Something like that?

Chanyeol shook his head, running his hand through his hair. There’s a lot of things to uncover, for sure.

* * *

“ _Ow!_ ”

“Wake up.”

Chanyeol groaned, holding his head. It’s been too many times that he’s been hit on the head today, and he certainly doesn’t need another one from Yura. He opened his eyes, a little disoriented. The lights in his room seems brighter, so it must be already dark outside. He remembered falling asleep again for a few hours after noon. He did this habitually now—all he did in the hospital was take a nap to repress his thoughts.

Yura pushed a plate onto his hand filled with food.

“There’s nothing in the sink or in the trash to tell me that you’ve been eating today, so this is my efforts to keep you alive,” Yura said in her deadpan voice.

“Thanks,” Chanyeol murmured. He picked up the utensils and started eating—he didn’t really have an appetite, but he wants to get something down at least. Yura had probably just got home because she was in her work clothes, and she wore the slightest hint of makeup. He reached into a purse and handed Chanyeol a paper.

“Got in touch with your doctor. Your appointments are every Wednesday at 3, every week until otherwise,” she said, and she reached into her purse again and pulled out a small bag, “And I picked up your prescription for you. Zoloft and Clozaril.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Chanyeol parroted himself, taking the bag and checking its contents. He nodded and puts them aside on his bedside table. His sister really cared for him more than he thought—and she was brutally honest, and that was what Chanyeol liked about her.

“Don’t thank me. Just don’t die,” Yura raised both of her eyebrows, “You have any problems, come tell me.”

Chanyeol nodded, and Yura started to leave the room. Chanyeol thought about her sentence for a moment, his mind flashing back to the boy that had paid him an unwelcome visit, and he started up.

“Actually, Yura—“

His sister stopped and immediately turned around, like a robot. She does these things seamlessly sometimes and it freaks anyone out who’s not used to it.

“You know… about this boy?” Chanyeol swallowed, “Small, black-haired—“

“Evil eyes with a beat-up Chevrolet?” Yura finished it off. Chanyeol was shocked a little, surprised by Yura’s knowledge. If Yura knew about him, this boy must’ve done something spectacular in some way to be so popular. Yura shook her head.

“Just don’t,” she said. Chanyeol was going to ask her to elaborate, but she simply left. Either this boy was just a small nuisance for her answer to be that short, or that boy has done some exceptionally troublesome things to earn this sort of reputation.

Chanyeol finished his dinner, and as a small thank-you, he did the dishes, and shortly joined Yura on the couch to watch a series. After the 4th episode or so, Yura told Chanyeol she was going to retire for the night and she left upstairs to the bedroom, and Chanyeol was left alone.

Chanyeol watched the television screen, first focused on it, but later and later, the dialogues became white noise. The people’s faces started distorting as Chanyeol became sleepy; they eyes became holes, filled with black. The television seemed to move slower and slower as time progressed, and the people in it just became scarier and scarier, their eyes disappearing. Chanyeol groggily spotted someone else in the television screen—it was the boy with the eyes of Satan, glinting at the camera directly to his soul, hidden in the background by the actors. The ringing got louder and louder and Chanyeol thought he saw his father’s sleek, polished shoes peeking from the doorway. His eyes travelled upwards, looking at his father’s black slacks, the tie that rested on his shirt… but before Chanyeol could see his face, he fell unconscious, sleeping on the couch with the television on, staring at his existence.

* * *

When Chanyeol woke up next, it was 2am. He groaned quietly, his joints aching as he just laid down on the stiff sofa for a long time. Everything looked eerie around him; they looked static-y, like they were full of white noise. He got up to take a glass of water, deciding to go upstairs to sleep. Though as he puts down his glass of water, he saw a movement at the corner of his eye.

He knows that movement. Oh _God_ he knows that movement. The days where he would live in fear, anticipating his father’s return home. He always did the same movements. He would lean on the doorframe and his body would be half-bathed in shadows. He would… whisper his name…

_“Yeollie…?”_

Chanyeol wanted to vomit. He started shaking. He smacked the side of his head, knowing whatever that was at the corner of his eye, it was just a hallucination. A trick of his mind. Yet everything pulled his body to look at the apparition that appeared at the door and he racked up what Kim Minseok said about differentiating from what is real and what is not.

 _The doors are locked, the windows are closed, so he can’t get inside here_ , Chanyeol forced onto himself, _he’s in jail, he’s locked up, he can’t get me. If he were to break into the house, police would’ve been after him, and he would’ve made a lot of noise—_

Chanyeol gasped, breaking out in cold sweat, gripping the countertop of the kitchen. He fought not to look, trying to tell himself over and over again that none of this was real. Ants started to appear in his vision, crawling over the walls—there were no ants there before, but these apparitions keep appearing again and again. He gripped his hair, panting for breath, but his mind had took control over his rationality.

_He’s coming. He broke inside. He’s after me. He’s going to do bad things to me. He’s going to kill me—_

Chanyeol slowly turned his head, shaking with fear. He saw his father’s dress shoes; black, polished and sleek, just overstepping into the hallway. Chanyeol’s eyes travelled upwards. His father’s slacks joined with his shoes… then his belt, his tie, his ruffled shirt, his neck—

Chanyeol whipped his head around before he could look at his father’s face. He yanked the kitchen window open and forced himself out, before he broke into a run, climbing over the garden fence. Whatever he does, he must not see his father’s face. Never. Ever. Not for the rest of his life. Not for death. _Not ever. Whatever you do, don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back._

Chanyeol let out harsh gasps, running, running, and who knows where he’s running but he’s doing it. _Don’t let him catch up to you._ He tried to force it onto himself, crying inside his head that it was just an apparition, an illusion, a hallucination. But there was just this big _what if?_ in neon colours inside his head and he kept on running and running, until a car smacked his body sideways and he rolled onto the street, and everything went dark.

* * *

_Pain… your body is stiff… it hurts… cold, cold, it hurts, it’s cold, it hurts… where are you? Why are you here? It hurts. Cold. Please wake up. Cold. Cold. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Cold. Stiff. Stiff. Cold. It hurts._

Chanyeol snapped his eyes open.

Black welcomed his vision. Then dots of white appeared. He put two and two together and realised that they were stars—the night sky was staring back at him. It was freezing cold and Chanyeol shivered, and the movement itself triggered a pounding in his head. Where was he?

The last time he remembered he was conscious, something had struck him down. A vehicle. Then he rolled down the streets and everything went. He was relieved at least—he was alive and the paranoia subsided. Now all he has to do is figure out how to get back home…

Then a pair of eyes stared at him.

“FUCK—“ Chanyeol screamed, but whoever it was muffled his mouth. Chanyeol breathed harshly, his body entering fight or flight, but the hand was gentle on his mouth, as if it was merely suggesting Chanyeol to be quiet instead of forcing him to be quiet. Chanyeol took a few deep breaths, trying to compose himself, and saw that it was _the boy_ who had his hand on top of his mouth. Once Chanyeol calmed down, the boy removed his hand from Chanyeol’s mouth, and the latter felt a cold pair of hands graze his own.

Chanyeol felt it then—there were cuts on his hand, his clothes were torn, and he had a graze on his cheek. Luckily for him, the car that hit him didn’t leave him much damage. He tried moving his arms, legs and neck, and they seemed to be working fine. Apart from feeling a little sore, good luck seemed to be on his side today.

Chanyeol looked at the boy, who was almost hovering above him. The boy was holding one of his hands and was applying plasters to the open cuts, peeling them carefully one by one and applying them to his skin.

Chanyeol saw him a little clearly on the moonlight. The boy wore more piercings than Chanyeol could count—there was maybe about six on each ear, all of them silver and mismatched. The boy had cuts of his own, and many were scabs or covered by plaster. His smallness made him look frail, but he looked somewhat well-defined. The boy had a split lip that looked pretty fresh and he had a bruise on one of his eyes.

Chanyeol’s eyes swivelled around. He was laying on a grassy field that seemed to stretch on for miles. In the corner of his eye, he saw a car—a familiar Chevrolet appeared within his vision and if Chanyeol had any strength, Chanyeol would’ve smacked the boy (and probably regret it afterwards).

“You—“ Chanyeol groaned, “Son of a bitch, you hit me with your car!”

No response. The boy just didn’t speak. He continued to tend to Chanyeol’s hand. When he was done, he stood up. Chanyeol's eyes met his steely ones—Chanyeol noticed that they were gleaming, almost blinding to look at. Those eyes blinked and the boy began to leave in the direction of his car, leaving Chanyeol behind.

“W-Wait!” Chanyeol stammered, getting up on his wobbly feet, and he felt dizzy for a moment. He ran after the boy, slowing down once he was by his side. Chanyeol noticed that the shoes he wore were untied, and his clothes barely covered his skin from the night air. And who knows what time it was.

“Hey—come on. You have some explaining to do. First you broke into my house, gave me biscuits, and then you hit me with your car and you patched me up. What the fuck do you want from me?” Chanyeol said raspily, but the boy gave no response—he didn’t even bother to look up at Chanyeol. Chanyeol was left answered and exasperated. He didn't even know where he was. The boy paid no need to him and got into his tattered car, which Chanyeol found impressive that it was still together as a whole and not in pieces.

The boy started up his car, and Chanyeol smacked the window as hard as he can. His palm hurt, but it got the boy's attention.

“You can't just leave me out like this,” Chanyeol said, feeling suddenly exhausted. The boy stared at him with his glinting eyes; Chanyeol tried to find meaning in the depths of them—but there was nothing. Nothing at all.

The boy got out and went to the other side of the car, opening the door. He stared at Chanyeol for a while, and Chanyeol was puzzled, before he realised that he was just offered a ride.

Hesitant at first, Chanyeol wondered if he should accept the invitation, but he figured that he had nothing to lose. He approached the boy, gave him a confused look and climbed into the car. The boy promptly shut the doors and got in on the other side, before starting up the car and starting to drive it.

Chanyeol looked at him for a long while. He seemed old enough to know to drive. His skin was like some sort of latex that pushed snugly against his flesh, so every curve and dip on his body was visible and denoted clearly. He had a lot more cuts and bruises than Chanyeol thought, and Chanyeol wondered how he had got them.

“At least give me your name,” Chanyeol spoke after a while. No answer—the boy didn't even look up. Chanyeol sighed, looking around the car. Despite its beat-up look on the outside, it seemed much nicer inside. He opened the glove box and his eyes widened as knives, lockpicks and even a few bullets fell to place. Deciding to ignore their existence and avoiding touching them, Chanyeol peeked at the insurance papers of the car, and looked at the boy.

“Byun Baekhyun?” he said, and the boy looked at him. He said nothing, however, and just looked at the road ahead.

“Well, that's what I'm going to call you from now on, Baekhyun.” Chanyeol pursed his lips, before shutting the box up again. The papers might exist, but the boy might have stolen the car, so Chanyeol still wasn't quite sure that was his name.

He looked at his plastered-up hand, sighing. He raked a hand through his hair and felt a plaster on his temple and his cheek—he has a load of explaining to do to Yura when he comes home. He glanced at the radio on the dashboard and saw that it was 4. He had been out for two hours. Hopefully Yura didn’t notice his disappearance.

Baekhyun—or so Chanyeol thought his name is—pulled up his car in front of Yura’s house. Chanyeol was about to let out a protest, almost demanding Baekhyun how he knew where his house was, but then he remembered that Baekhyun had been throwing stones at his house for a few days now.

Chanyeol sighed, slapping his thighs. He looked at Baekhyun’s tight-pulled porcelain face, eyes sharper than steel, and they both stared at each other for a while, unspeaking.

“Thanks,” Chanyeol gritted out, “But please. Don’t come back.”

The eyes glinted back at him, but Baekhyun said nothing.

Chanyeol exited the car, shutting the door behind him. As soon as he went out, the Chevrolet wheezed and zoomed away, leaving a trail of dust behind him, and it was as if the car was never here in the first place.

Chanyeol breathed in deeply, shaking his head. He went around to the back, since he knew the front door would be locked. He climbed the garden fence, squeezing through the kitchen window. He drank the rest of the water that he had left two hours ago before climbing into his room, unbeknownst to him that Yura was aware that he had left the house at 2am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hughghgh.. chapter 3! Yay! I had a lotta fun writing this! And. Of course. It's unbeta-ed LOL
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! I do try to reply to them all <3 And don’t forget to upvote (or site equivalent) if you haven’t! Have a good day!


	4. His Mother

_“Muscle to muscle and toe to toe  
_ _The fear has gripped me but here I go  
_ _My heart sinks as I jump up  
_ _Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut.”_

_Breezeblocks, Alt-J_

* * *

Chanyeol inhaled sharply, smelling the barely-there fragrance of dust that floated around in the empty continuum of air. He groaned when he tried to move, feeling every bit of his body ache. He did not feel his pain yesterday, so why now? Chanyeol bit his lips, wincing to find that they were scabbed. Perhaps the adrenaline wore off and he's feeling all of the pain now.

It's morning, by the looks of the sunlight that filtered through the room. If he's lucky, Yura must have went out of the house to work, so he can delay facing her for another day. The clock however, says a little before seven, so Chanyeol can't escape confrontation.

Chanyeol sighed, rubbing his eyes. He considered taking some painkillers, but that would nullify the effects of his medication. Figuring that he could endure feeling bruised and tender for a couple of days, he got on his feet and walked to the bathroom with the purpose of emptying his bladder.

He went to wash his hands, but found that they were chock-full of plasters, like someone trying to tape off the holes of a sieve. Chanyeol pressed his lips and gripped the sides of the sink, leaning forwards, peering at his own face.

There was science in staring at one's reflection, especially common in people who endured trauma, but Chanyeol didn't remember it. When Kim Minseok told him about it, it went from one ear out the other, but now it seemed like interesting information that Chanyeol unfortunately couldn't recall. This mirror obsession was apparent in every single hospital inmate that Chanyeol came across. His… _hospital buddy_ , if he could call Sehun such moniker, had the same habit of looking at his own visage for hours at a time, as if searching the answers to his problems by the blemishes upon his face.

There was a graze on Chanyeol's cheek, and it came across as angry lines. There was a single plaster that rested just above his eyebrow, and Chanyeol amused himself by repeatedly raising said eyebrow to feel the plaster pull on his forehead. His face was trodden with dust and dirt, and his hair was in multiple places. His clothes were ripped, and where there were holes there were either bruises or cuts. Chanyeol logically thought that there were probably other bruises on his body that he couldn't see.

Chanyeol's eyes widened, and everything in the mirror seemed to melt off. _Bruises? On his body?_ Chanyeol's eyes watered at the remembrance of unwanted wounds on his body; bruises, nail marks, teeth marks that he didn't want. The image replays and rinses itself over and over again and he began to hyperventilate, wheezing out of his lungs, and he loses his grip from the sink and collapses into the wall next to him. Breathing, his first nature, began to become like a punishment, and he convulsed as he breathed, gasping at the front of his throat. He couldn't recall how, but Yura must've heard because her apparition suddenly appeared in front of him, taking a firm hold on his shoulders.

“Breathe,” Yura said, rigid but gentle, “Breathe, Chanyeol, breathe.”

“I can't—” Chanyeol choked, his voice mixing in with breaths that was barely there, “I'm—mngf—hahh—I’m g-going to die, I'm going—oh god, I'm dying, I'm dying—”

“I'm here. Breathe. Breathe, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol's eyes swivelled and he saw a polished shoe appear at the end of the bathroom door. His breaths suddenly disappeared, and he simply began to choke. Yura must've known what to do because she positioned herself in front of Chanyeol and blocked his view entirely, and the shoe disappears behind Yura's back. Chanyeol's vision was then filled with Yura, her gaze filled with confident assurance. Remembering that Yura was the only good that was left of his world, Chanyeol took a gasp of air, feeling his joints unwind, and he regained his composure bit by bit.

It took some time for his breathing to level off, and once it did, Chanyeol closed his eyes. The hurt in his joints returned, but it was a much better hurt than irrational panic.

He saw Yura clearly now, in full light. It seemed that she has just woken up, because her face was bare and her hair was tousled. Chanyeol must’ve woken her up from the ruckus he had made.

He covered his own face, ashamed that he had to be such a disturbance, and he pinched together the bridge of his nose as if to find comfort by doing so.

“I'm sorry,” Chanyeol murmured, “I'm so so sorry.”

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” Yura spoke. Chanyeol cherished her so. He found comfort in her voice's steadiness, because that steadiness meant control. He took a minute of silence to fully regain himself before he uncovered his face.

“I don't think the medication is working,” Chanyeol blew out a harsh breath, raking his hand through his hair and sniffling, “I've… I've been getting… _visions_ …”

“Yeah, I guessed,” Yura interrupted, as if to bar Chanyeol from discussing it too much, and Chanyeol is grateful for it, “You should bring it up to your doc.”

“I’m seeing him on Wednesday,” Chanyeol nodded, but Yura shook her head.

“I can contact him now if you want.”

“No, no, just… leave it be.” Chanyeol murmured. He knows that he really should, because if any of these things step off again then it’s probably time for him to go back, since it means he’s just not ready to face the outside world yet. But getting help just seems like a big, elaborate ball of stress and Chanyeol didn’t want it right now. He sensed that Yura wanted to push it, but came to understood him, so she didn't ask again.

“I can stay home if you want.”

Chanyeol shook his head. Yura blinked, as if automated, then tilted her head.

“Okay. But I’m going to call you from work every few hours. Just to make sure you're doing okay.”

That sounded a nicer offer, and Chanyeol accepted it. Yura leaned forward to briefly embrace him, and, if she wanted to say anything about him breaking out of the house at 2AM and the many wounds on his body, she doesn't say a word and immediately left the bathroom to give Chanyeol some space.

The ringing started again.

He ignored it this time, sniffling, getting up from the floor. He took another look in the mirror and gazed at the specks of dirt that covered his face. He probably needed to clean up; he’s been thrown around on the earth a lot lately.

Silently, Chanyeol discarded his clothes, wondering whether it was still possible to sew up the holes and fix it, but decided against it and didn't throw it into the hamper. He carefully peeled off every plaster he could find, thankful that the wounds at least dried up. Then, stepping into the shower, he arranged the soap and shower in front of him, and he closed his eyes.

This was something Kim Minseok hasn't exactly solved. Chanyeol was fine looking at his own face, but he could not stand looking at the rest of his own body. Looking at his own body would send him into hysteria, because it was a (literal) walking reminder of his trauma. Seeing small individual parts was fine, but looking at his whole body collectively (imagine a long mirror) was out of the question.

Chanyeol had learnt how to shower with his eyes closed. Not that he was missing out on a lot.

The main thing was the scar on his stomach. It was a hard, raised set of bumps that lined his abdomen like a set of mountains. Chanyeol didn't want to see it. It was a reminder of a time when Chanyeol plunged the knife into—

Chanyeol flinched and dropped the soap. He better not think of his past. Think of something else, think of something else…

A set of steely eyes came to his mind. A beat-up Chevrolet. 12 sets of mismatched piercings, 6 on each ear. Latex, moonlight-coloured skin. The boy from the 9th circle of hell that bore the name… what was his name… Byun Baekhyun, if Chanyeol’s memory served well.

Chanyeol rinsed off the suds and strode back to his bedroom. Once he shut the door, he dropped the towel around his waist and quickly pulled on his boxers, eyes looking elsewhere than his own body, trying to build the image of Byun Baekhyun in his head.

What was a scrap of a boy doing in his insignificant life? The boy seems so adamant in making himself known, yet whenever Chanyeol plucked the courage to make the inquiry, he would run away. What was so important about Chanyeol that someone else was throwing pebbles at him ever since he got here?

Something isn’t right about this neighbourhood. Something really doesn't sit right on Chanyeol’s head, and now that he noticed it, something was truly off around here.

He got clothed and went downstairs. He was extremely tired from last night’s ordeal and still needed to catch up on sleep, but he figured that he should at least say goodbye to Yura. His sister was already clothed and she was absent-mindedly plucking things off of her breakfast plate.

“Hi,”

“Hi.”

Silence. It was comfortable. Chanyeol didn't really want to go for breakfast.

“I’ll be back at six,” Yura put away her plate and picked up her bag, “I’ll call you time to time, just make sure you pick up.”

“Sure.”

Yura started to go for the door, but she paused in front of Chanyeol, as if to say something. When Chanyeol raised an eyebrow, she quickly shook her head and simply patted Chanyeol’s shoulder before she left for her work.

Chanyeol frowned. She knew something for sure, but she hasn't brought it up. Yura is the least stupid person Chanyeol knew, so it's impossible that she missed the bruises, the cuts, the plasters… his ripped clothing…

Out of curiosity, Chanyeol tried to open the kitchen window where he made his brief escapade last night. Yura _did_ know after all; she locked the window properly with a key. The spare keys to the house, however, still rests untouched on the table, so Yura simply took precaution rather than placing him on lockdown. Chanyeol supposed that she was tactful enough to not talk about last night, and simply hinted at the fact that she knew, but she sensed Chanyeol wouldn't want to talk about it.

Chanyeol trudged upstairs, not really feeling like going back to sleep. He figured that he should finish unpacking things up in his room and at least look like he's doing something productive. He felt guilty about lying around the house while Yura works to pay for bills.

He unpacked his stereo and guitars, as well as a few mics. He used to be very big in music and, when his father started to come around and plough him, Chanyeol took comfort in music. When it got worse, he would endlessly strum dissonant chords, playing them at dangerous volumes. To him, it was like white noise that would drown his thoughts. Just the same like his tinnitus. The ringing noise comforts him.

He sat down on his bed now, guitar plugged. He strummed a few chords, and found himself suddenly nostalgic of his love for creating music. He sat down for a while, playing a few tunes, melodies, chords that resembled old songs he used to love. Chanyeol closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lost in the sound, his thoughts disappearing for a while. He probably sat there entranced for hours because the next time he looked up, the sunrays had shifted to another part of the wall.

Then it came. The interruption to his music

 _Clack_.

Chanyeol's chord struck off, bent and faded. Chanyeol's head slowly turned towards the window, frowning.

_Clack._

_Clack_.

Chanyeol sighed, gently putting away his guitar. The pebbles against the window no longer meant a threat; it was just an invitation to the unknown wherein he had a choice whether to accept or decline.

Today, he accepted it.

He waited for the last pebble to be thrown. Chanyeol then opened the window, looking down, his eyes resting on the familiar Chevrolet. The person throwing the pebbles however, is nowhere in sight. _Shrouded in mystery as always_ , Chanyeol sighed. Should he really be letting his guard down? This was the boy that threw stones, that ran him over with a car, that let himself into the house. Then again, the boy never… actively tried to make him scared. So what gives?

Well he had nothing to lose. If he dies, he dies.

He briskly ran downstairs and pivoted at the doorway. The boy seemed to have not let himself in at his own leisure, so he’s probably outside. Chanyeol slipped on his shoes and opened the door, somehow surprised to find him sitting outside on the porch.

The hand that rested on the floorboard seemed to melt into the white paint. Chanyeol paused in his steps, hesitant for a while, before he took a few steps and sat down a few feet away from him on the porch.

Byun Baekhyun, in every instance that Chanyeol ever saw him, always wore this sleeveless jersey and shorts. His arms were defined but they ran lanky and thin, like an awkward branch. When Chanyeol came to sit, all of the boy’s twelve piercings blinked at him in their silver wake; Baekhyun was the biggest white noise Chanyeol had ever seen in his life.

Chanyeol studied his features carefully, as he had only seen the boy a few limited times in daylight. So many scars dotted his body. Unlike Chanyeol’s, in which his scars were planned and in uniform, the boy’s scars were carelessly scattered as if he earned them in a fight. He certainly looked like someone who would get into a scrap.

Chanyeol dared to look at his eyes, but he found himself looking away pretty quickly. Baekhyun’s gaze was like a piercing scream that was simultaneously too loud to ignore and also too loud to hear. There was, however, no meaning in them. They were as alive as they were dead. Chanyeol could not find meaning in his stare.

Averting his eyes, he spotted a new cut just underneath Baekhyun’s eye. It certainly looked fresh. Chanyeol’s eyes travelled downwards and saw that Baekhyun’s knuckles were raw. They did not bleed, but they were skinned and pink. Chanyeol wondered how much that would hurt. Cuts nearer to the extremities of the body always hurt more.

“Got into a fight?” Chanyeol asked nonchalantly. Byun Baekhyun seemed still as a statue, more frozen than freezing, with only his hair moving in the barely-there wind. The earrings that were hoops dangled against each other. Chanyeol counted them all—there were five hoops, and seven studs. Chanyeol waited for an answer, but to no avail, and Chanyeol sighed.

“Alright then. Not a talker, huh?” Chanyeol put his knees together. He didn’t know how someone could be so quiet. He himself has been described as quiet—Kim Minseok many times commented his often long silences. To go through days without talking though… that’d drive Chanyeol lonely.

Chanyeol slowly smacked his knees together. Now he felt more awkward than threatened, if anything. He saw Baekhyun’s shoes; his grey socks were mismatched in different shades and his laces were tucked in rather than tied. They were in the shade of white, from what Chanyeol presumed, but age and wear had made it forlornly grey and brown. This satisfied Chanyeol’s heart, somewhat. He was so sick of the white confines the hospital provided him. Dirtying the colour white was some kind of victory.

Byun Baekhyun was some sort of off-white colour.

“Why did you run me over yesterday?” Chanyeol spoke again. Every time he spoke, he felt that it was so forced because the other wouldn’t reply. Even then, knowing that he would receive no reply, he felt so compelled to talk.

Well, silence. It wasn’t hard to predict.

“Was it payback because my ma—” Chanyeol bit lips together. Slip of the tongue, “—I mean, my mother ran you over? Did you feel like it? Or did you genuinely did it by accident?”

Even the easy breeze spoke louder than Baekhyun. Then, like a deafening sound, ringing resonated. Chanyeol frowned, fumbling with his pockets for a few seconds, because he knew that it was probably Yura. He pulled his phone out and held it to his ear.

_“Hi. Are you dead yet?”_

“Not yet, lucky you,” Chanyeol snorted. Yura didn’t laugh, but Chanyeol knew she found it funny.

_“Alright. Call me if you need help. Bye.”_

“Bye.”

All of that took place in less than thirty seconds. He thought himself that his own communication with his sister was weird. Byun Baekhyun’s was even weirder—he spoke nothing at all.

Then Chanyeol pressed himself to ask _the_ question.

“Why are you here?” he said, looking at Baekhyun pointedly, “What is it about me you’re so determined about?”

There was no answer. Chanyeol began to wonder whether he was deaf or mute.

Chanyeol sighed. It may be a long time until he could coax the answer out of him. For now though, at least he has a new contact in the new page of his life. It’s a fresh… _friend? Acquaintance?_ Chanyeol wasn’t even sure he could call Baekhyun someone he knew. He didn’t know anything about Baekhyun at all. But he’s glad that, at least, his social circle didn’t only consist of his sister.

He stayed there for a while. Baekhyun seemed so good at sitting still. Chanyeol was, too, because he could sit still for amounts of time, but Baekhyun passed him superiorly. What usefulness this power had, Chanyeol wasn’t so sure, but he was beginning to get uncomfortable. There was this boy, he knocks on your window with pebbles for you to come out, yet he invites you to sit still and do nothing. Was that innocent or suspicious? And Chanyeol was beginning to get antsy.

Out of boredom, Chanyeol went back to his house without a word. Rather disappointingly, Baekhyun did not look back even once.

Chanyeol spent some time with his guitar, strumming a few chords, but Baekhyun’s sole presence downstairs in his porch irked him. There was no telling whether Byun Baekhyun was a threat to him or not. Regularly, Chanyeol went to look out of the window; although the boy’s figure was invisible, his car was still there and he seemed to have stuck to the porch. Yura’s calls came and go. After hours and hours, Baekhyun still sat on the porch.

Something truly didn’t sit right with Chanyeol.

There was no movement at all—at least, until sundown. As the clock approached six, Chanyeol saw that Baekhyun got up and got into his car. Faster than Chanyeol could blink, the Chevrolet coughed and wheezed away, leaving a trail of dust, and disappears like an apparition. Just shortly, Yura’s car followed, and Chanyeol immediately came downstairs to greet her.

Yura had opened the door with her heels, before she kicked them off. She was carrying bags of groceries in her hands, and immediately dropped them as soon as she entered. Chanyeol automatically got up to help her put it away, with Yura muttering her thanks.

“Sorry,” Yura sighed. She pulled out a cigarette from her pockets and lit it up. Chanyeol shook his head.

“I don’t care if you smoke. It’s your own house.”

“No,” Yura mumbled. She inhaled deeply and sighed out her smoke. Her makeup had began to smudge around her eyes, “I tried to stop _her_. It didn’t work.”

Chanyeol frowned, wondering what on earth she could mean, before he heard another car pulling up in front of the house, visible by the open door. Chanyeol knows that car well. The hood had a dent from where Baekhyun had slammed the car with his fists. It could not be anyone else’s car than his mother’s.

He groaned, shoving the groceries onto the kitchen counter and running upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind him. Yura seemed to understand, because she didn’t try to stop Chanyeol. She rolled her eyes and leaned on the doorway, taking puffs out of her cigarette, watching her weary mother hobble out of her car. Yura gave a brief smile before it drooped, hugging her mother with one arm before letting her in.

“Oh please, Yura, none of that,” her mother sighed, but she couldn’t say anything now. Yura has been out of the house for quite a while. She’s her own person.

“Where’s my Chanyeollie?” her mother rubbed her wrinkled hands. She always had this forlorn expression, as if something had greatly inconvenienced her and she was trying her best to cope with it. Yura scrunched her cheeks and wrinkled her nose.

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“... Oh,” she said, as if it was some great surprise. Yura’s mother scratched her own sullen face with her red fingernails, the paint cracked at the edges as if to allude to some frailty by age, “But… it’s me. Is he in his bedroom? That’s the spare room, right?”

“Mama, _no_ ,” Yura tried to urge her, but it was too late. Her mother was already trudging upstairs and Yura sighed, shaking her head, taking a deep puff of her cigarette.

Her mother took slow, frail steps, reaching the landing of the second floor of the house. He knocked what she knew was Chanyeol’s bedroom and a groaned resonates from it.

Chanyeol sat in front of the door, chewing his nails frantically. He was being immature right now for sure, but if there was anyone he hated, it was his mother.

In ways, he hated his mother more than he did his father. His father was… straightforward. If he wanted to use Chanyeol, he’d say it and he’d do it. His mother… it’s as if she had different switches on who to stand up for, her disgusting husband or her son. More often than not, she had— _Chanyeol gritted his teeth at the remembrance_ —defended her _beloved_ husband for the actions he did. Such justifiable actions! His father had _killed_ Chanyeol on the inside. Chanyeol hated his mother with pure passion.

“Chanyeollie?”

“ _Fuck_ off,” Chanyeol snapped. There must be some sort of shocked from his mother, because she didn’t speak for a while. To Chanyeol, it didn't matter if he had upset his mother. _She_ had failed him as his mother. Then he had the liberty of being the rebel son, for all that she cared.

“My little lamb, please…” his mother sounded from the other side of the door, and Chanyeol growled, pulling at his own hair. What did she expect? _Forgiveness?_ She had many chances to save him when Chanyeol was suffering in the dark. She did not take a single one.

“I just want to talk to you. Please, baby? Just for a minute?” she said, sounding like a sad, sad whale. Chanyeol gritted his teeth, wondering why he ever wanted to give into his stupid mother. He bit his scabbed lips and stood up, walking into his bed and sitting down. His mother slowly opened the door, peeping into the room before letting herself in.

“Oh…” she said softly, looking around, “Just as it has been in your old room.”

Chanyeol looked away.

His mother approached him carefully, sitting down next to him. She was about to hold his hands but Chanyeol had visibly flinched. She abandoned the idea and clasped her own hands.

“How is it here?” she murmurs, “Are you doing okay?”

“ _Fine_.” Chanyeol gritted out. He was more than fine, actually. Besides the oddities of his health, it has been a vastly great experience moving in with his sister. He was talking to his mother however, and just for the sake of it, he wanted to be spiteful.

“Okay. Okay,” his mother said, pursing her lips, “Well… you know… if you ever wanted to… go back living at home—”

“I don’t plan to.” Chanyeol cut her short. His mother looked hurt. She had _no_ right to look hurt. Why did she always have to play such a victim? The only one hurt out of this was _him_.

She sighed, smoothing the quilt of the pillow. She looked upon her son. Chanyeol was this frail, fragile thing. He was built too tall, too skinny. Every one of his clothes hung limp on his shoulders. His face was full of life once, and he enjoyed daily bouts of laughter.

Now he just seemed like the nail was about to be shut upon the coffin.

“What happened to your face?” his mother said in a concerned tone. Chanyeol was about to be insulted, but remembered that he did indeed have cuts and grazes on his face. He touched them absentmindedly and shrugged.

“I fell.” he said curtly. Well, it was true. When the car struck him (which he was still so lucky to survive just with a few scratches), he did _fall_ , technically. His mother sighed and pressed her lips tightly.

“Chanyeol… why do you hate me so?” she said limply, “Every time I visited you at the hospital… you never wanted to see me. Every time I talk to you, it just seems like… you’re gone. Why do you want to push me away so badly?”

Chanyeol immediately stood up. He looked at his mother. _Oh_ , how _dare_ she!

“Why?” he echoed hollowly, “ _Why_?”

“Chanyeol…”

“You knew. You _knew_ that all of that was happening. You _knew_ he was touching me, every chance he gets. You walked in _multiple times_ when it happened. I went to you for _help_. You know what you did? You know what you did, huh?”

Chanyeol was seething. He pointed accusatively at his mother, growling.

“NOTHING. You did _nothing_. What a shameful mother you are. You _defended_ him. You’ve always defended him. _Oh no Chanyeollie, maybe you’re misbehaving and he’s doing this to punish you_. Fuck you. Fuck you, you sick fuck. And when you came to court, you acted innocent and started _crying_ , boo-hoo, _my husband raped my son every night and I tried oh-so-hard to stop it_ when you’ve did _nothing._ What a fucking _bitch_ of a _mother_ you are! Fuck you, fuck you, you sick fuck! Fuck you!”

Chanyeol had always been meek. Always. But the years grew him calluses on his skin and they now became thick. He would’ve never before sworn in front of his mother. Now the latter couldn’t even tell her own son for his foul language. She just sat silently, her hands clasped, her face pale with horror and guilt.

“Have you ever tried to say sorry, huh? Have you ever tried to apologise, _mother_? Even when I knew you _lied_ through your teeth and said you tried _soooo hard_ to stop that bastard fucking sonofabitch from harming me? Even when I’d defended you as _innocent_ against evidence the court presented? Huh? Where is your apology, woman?! Where is your guilt?! Where is my childhood?!”

At this point, his mother had burst into silent tears, and her cheeks darkened with shame and wet mascara. This wasn’t at all apologetic enough for Chanyeol. He bared her teeth at her, like a predator. But he wasn’t one. He was baring his teeth to make himself look big, because he was so so scared. He was terrified.

“Remember this?” Chanyeol said, lowly this time. His arm was outstretched towards his mother, like a sword, like a threat. He raises his shirt to reveal his ugly scar, curved and jagged on his stomach. His mother broke into shocked sobs. Chanyeol so badly wanted to make a point to his mother of how much he despised. She was meant to be the stopper, but she had let everything slide away. Chanyeol so badly wanted to make her regret everything she had done—or more appropriately— _refused_ to have done.

“Remember how you walked in on it? Remember how that bastard _begged_ you not to call the authorities? Remember how you kicked the phone out of Yura’s hands, locked the doors, and cut off the phone lines? Remember how you had let me slowly die and watched it with your very eyes? Mother? Remember? _Remember?_ ”

At this point Chanyeol’s arm had trembled greatly. His ribs felt like it was being crushed, and a wave of suffocation came to him again. He gasped for breath and promptly fell to the floor, curling up, grasping at his chest. The sharp ringing suddenly struck his ears and he cried out, groaning loudly. Ants—ants that he knew weren’t real—started to swarm his vision. The bugs were everywhere now. They crawled all over his skin, their legs sticking into his flesh, covering his body.

His mother had been too shocked to react, looking at her writhing son with wide eyes, hand clasped over her mouth. At this point Yura had heard everything and was by Chanyeol’s side within seconds. She rested Chanyeol’s head in her arms, trying to keep him as still as possible, before she glared at her mother.

“You need to leave, mama,” she said firmly. Their mother stood, still as a statue, rooted to her feet.

“ _Now_ , mama,” Yura said a little louder, and as if something snapped, their mother scurried and hobbled downstairs. Yura held her gasping brother, who was desperately wiping the imaginary bugs off of himself. He sobbed softly, curling up, scratching his own body, writhing this way and that.

“Make it stop,” Chanyeol cried, his face full of tears. He struggled against himself, as if some sort of force was impending upon him and he was trying to struggle free, “Make it stop, _make it stop_.”

Yura stayed put for a while, letting Chanyeol try to compose himself, simply making sure that his head didn’t move too violently onto the floorboards. When Chanyeol could at least breathe, Yura helped him hobble over to his bed. He had stop scratching himself now, but he still looked extremely dazed, as if he had saw something truly unpleasant.

“I’ll fetch you some Nytol. It’ll help you sleep,” Yura said softly, and Chanyeol gave no reply, lying still on his bed. Yura briskly walked downstairs, sighing to find that her mother still hung around, the latter’s hands wrung anxiously around each other.

“I—I originally came here to bring him the rest of his things,” her mother said defensively. Sure enough, there were boxes within the room now, full of Chanyeol’s things. She must’ve unloaded them when Yura was upstairs. Yura sighed put her hands on her hips.

“It’s best that you leave.”

“I—”

“It’s not healthy for him to see you,” Yura said curtly, “It’s best that you don’t seek him again for a long, long time.”

Her mother pursed her lips. She always looked like such a forlorn bird.

Uttering a small, sad goodbye, she left without any more words.

Chanyeol laid upstairs, his vision dotted with white and black, like a static image.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof hey guys! It's me again. 4th chapter!
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, I don't really have any excuses. I do hope however that the next chapter won't be such a long wait. We're peaking onto something here ;)
> 
> Please do upvote [or site equivalent] and comment! I love hearing your thoughts on my stories! It'd be awesome if you promote this story to others too! I solely rely on you guys to kind of make this story read, so... every bit of effort helps! I'm going to try to reply to every single one of you from now on, too!
> 
> Love you guys!!! Here's my twitter @baekyuu0506 if you wanna talk <3
> 
> See you next time!


	5. An Introduction to Speed

_“I want a new yellow Ferrari from the nineties in the driveway  
_ _But I know that you wouldn't like that  
_ _I want it now, I want it loud, I want it my way  
_ _But everybody doesn’t fight like that.”_

_Ferrari, The Neighbourhood_

* * *

Chanyeol’s mouth was dry. He licked around the cavern of his mouth, eventually swallowing emptiness. He placed the pills on his tongue and washed it down quickly before the bitterness could seep in. He sighed and laid down again, closing his eyes.

Yura didn’t risk leaving Chanyeol home, and Chanyeol understood her even though he was a little annoyed by it. Chanyeol adjusting to normal life as it is proved more difficult than everyone thought it would be. Well, alright, he had no troubles adjusting, but coping with his maladies is difficult for sure. Chanyeol himself was already steady and composed, but just in case, Yura didn’t want him to be alone.

So Yura took her time off work. It wasn’t like she was keeping an eye on him all the time, so Chanyeol put up with her occasionally coming into his room just to check up on him before leaving again without a word. Chanyeol was grateful for it, because Yura simultaneously took care of him and respected his space. Chanyeol apologised many times for the fact that she had to take the day off work for him, but Yura hadn’t minded.

They both silently agreed that whatever happened yesterday, it must never happen again. Their mother is forbidden to visit the house, and if she somehow absolutely _must_ do it, then she has no rights to ask to see Chanyeol. Chanyeol didn’t voice it, but he was so glad that Yura had thick enough skin to see through their mother’s victim-like complex and not sympathise with her. Everyone else pitied the mother, somehow, because the love story with her husband had spun out of control. Chanyeol, who had the most hurt, was somehow ashamedly looked down upon, as if the whole ordeal has been his fault.

Chanyeol sat on his desk the whole day, looking through online academies. He already felt bad enough that he was sitting around being a bum around his sister’s house, so the least he could do was get back on track with life. Maybe he could songwrite for some extra cash. It eased him a little to know that he doesn’t have much burdens as he did from the last few years.

The rest of his noon, he spent strumming on his guitar. Chanyeol made distorted sounds that made sense in his head, his chords warbled like a mumble. He spent his time walking in circles around his room, pacing like some sort of tiger with a guitar in his hands, strumming randomly. Yura had not complained once, and only came upstairs to remind him to eat lunch (which he realised that he often skipped).

He paced around, rocking his head back and forth, playing his guitar slowly but loudly. It resembled no song; it was just this large white noise, brisking in and out of the air and painting his thoughts. Once or twice he’d wince in pain, since his fingernails were nonexistent and he had to force a little wedge of his fingertip to pick the strings, but he did that for a few hours, thinking of nothing but black and white dots inside his head.

* * *

Biology is both logical and illogical in its nature, which makes it incompetent. While it is generous, it is also relentlessly punishing.

Put it this way. Dopamine and serotonin are two of some components that construct the basic emotion of happiness. Likewise, dopamine and serotonin are the very same neurotransmitters that create schizophrenia. Just the right amount of both causes bliss, and vice versa an imbalance causes unfortunate cognitive deficits. Inhibiting such neurotransmitters are tricky, yet introducing the same ones are as difficult a stratagem. Searching the universal answer to this simple yet difficult calculation is an industry of its own—why the government profits from selling the cure to the unlucky, is another question.

There is some luck to the disadvantaged, however, due to how _Homo sapiens_ evolved as social mammals. Members of the _Homo sapiens_ unfortunate enough to suffer ailments can rely on support systems, whereas any other defect-suffering organisms are often left off to die if they cannot survive the elements. This support system is often social, and in some instances, economics are affiliated. The support system usually consists of family, friends, social workers, homes, institutions, or hospital wards. The other support system, though not commonly listed and completely hypothetical in existence, is life after death. Such support system is when the individual suffers no longer. In essence, there are two options for these people: life, or death.

Which one is better is a good question. Life seems so bloated with suffering, yet death is so unknown. A compromise between the two perhaps is best—a state of limbo, like the veni vidi vici of existence. Suffer you no more, but death cannot touch you.

Yet limbo seems so boring.

* * *

Chanyeol now sat in the waiting room, biting his nails, rocking his legs back and forth. He hadn’t looked forward much to this.

Yura had drove him to his appointment with his psychiatrist, whom he must see once every week. It was important to monitor patients after their discharge from the hospital. Chanyeol hadn’t minded his psychiatrist. Chanyeol thought he was a pretty cool guy. Chanyeol just wished that he didn’t have to go every week to be told how he should live his life because he was screwed in the head.

His name was promptly called and he sighed, slowly getting up and dragging his feet. Yura simply gave him a nod of assurance, and no other words. Chanyeol breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, wandering into his psychiatrist’s office with heavy shoulders, sitting down without invitation.

“Hello, Chanyeol,” Kim Minseok said pleasantly. He was some sort of funny man; not funny in a way that he often made Chanyeol laugh, but Kim Minseok had this sort of oddity to him. He was the very definition of someone with neutral emotions, so neutral that Chanyeol often thought of him like a robot. The difference between this man and the ever-so-automotive Yura was that Kim Minseok unexpectedly snaps back into being human sometimes, and he would droop his shoulders and take off his glasses.

“Last time I heard from you, you had moved in with your sister. How has it been?”

Chanyeol grunted, as if that was an intelligible enough reply. Kim Minseok had accompanied him through the past year of his recovery, so he was used to this.

“Please, Chanyeol. Work with me. Have you had any visions?”

Chanyeol broke in cold sweat. He heard the door creak open, knowing it was a conjuration of his mind. He knew his father stood behind the door, even though he had no way of knowing and that he hasn’t looked yet. He refuses to look, and focuses his eyes on the door, feeling the fear disappear as soon as it came.

“Some,” Chanyeol murmured and, weighing the options, he lied a little, “but they weren’t major.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Yeah.” Chanyeol said firmly. Kim Minseok didn’t catch on. The latter clicked his pen and wrote on a pad of paper.

“Actually, I have an issue,” Chanyeol piped up. Kim Minseok looked up and lowered his glasses, intent on listening. Chanyeol cleared his throat and scratched the nape of his neck.

“My Clozaril,” Chanyeol spoke. Kim Minseok raised his eyebrows.

“Your Clozaril?”

“It doesn’t work,” Chanyeol clapped his hands once.

Clozaril, one of his medicines, was supposed to combat his psychosis, though the presence of the frequent visions seem to tell him otherwise. Kim Minseok however, didn’t seem surprised.

“Clozaril may take a few weeks, months, or even a year for it to work,” Kim Minseok tapped his pen on his paper, “Since you’ve only started it for a while, it may take some time for your symptoms to disappear completely. However, it is important that you keep taking it on the daily…”

Kim Minseok’s words trailed off from one ear to another, and once again Chanyeol is lulled into thoughtlessness as his psychiatrist talked on. Chanyeol looked around his room; white, white as ever, and it pissed him off. The colour white simply advertised him purity, cleanliness. Chanyeol thought of himself as far from pure. His purity had been depleted long before he could know it enough.

He remembered scrubbing himself in soap every night, crying for his purity. Trying to deplete every touch the old man gave him. Trying to erase every single flake of skin, every hair, become pure again. What was meant to be his journey to discover his adult life was depleted, replacing by the will of needing to grow quickly in order to protect himself. The colour white reminded him of the cleanliness he never had and it’s an awful, awful colour.

“... frequent often so that we can monitor you.”

Kim Minseok’s words floated back again and Chanyeol blinked, looking up. He hadn’t listened for a single word, though Kim Minseok knew this by now and he simply sighs.

“Did you at least catch a gist of what I said?” Kim Minseok murmured.

“Yeah. Clozaril might deplete my white blood cells. Check up regularly to the doctor. Something like that. If I have any troubles I can visit you or call you in off-hours,” Chanyeol said, mouth open and tossing words. Kim Minseok seemed satisfied enough.

“Well, I believe that’s our time up,” the man said, and he offers Chanyeol a smile, “I see you getting better already.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Chanyeol offers him a somber laugh, and quickly pulls his face into a grimace as he exits the psychiatrist's office.

Purity! What a concept.

* * *

Home again.

Contrary to the norm, Chanyeol liked repetitiveness. Repetition is steadiness. Repetition is control. Weaving in and out, doing the same thing each and every day, to him was the definition of a refined life. A year ago, life was unpredictable and volatile. He was fragile and he had no control. Now, although he had no schedule, at least whatever he did was in his control.

He’d like to think that it was that way, anyway.

After Chanyeol went home, Yura immediately drove off again, saying something about meeting up with her friends. It seemed that she trusted him enough now, after today. She won’t be back for a few hours.

Chanyeol tuned in to the television, surfing the channels, though he found nothing he liked. Media was all too much for him now. Too brisk, too unpredictable, too dramatic. Especially the news. He had enough chaos in his mind and knowing the rest of the world’s chaos was too much knowledge.

Eventually he surfed too far and came across a channel that Yura didn’t have a subscription for, so the screen came as white noise. Chanyeol settled for this, putting the remote down and watching the screen intently.

White noise is ordered. It seems like chaos, with all its black and white dots scattering around in seemingly random algorithm, but to Chanyeol, white noise was predictable unpredictability. There is always a certain expectation of white noise: black, white, dotted, and moves around. It never changes and it never will. Such is what is called ordered chaos, and to Chanyeol, it was comfort.

It must’ve been a while because by the time he snapped into the real life again, his eyes were blurred and the sun was beginning to set. He also found himself hungry, but nothing in the cupboards interested him.

With the small little section of shops a few blocks away in mind, he grabbed the keys from the table and went outside. Yura had left him home, so presumably it wasn't crime for him to step outside… probably.

Chanyeol walked and thought of nothing. Getting lost in thinking of nothing is a wonderfully pleasant experience. The bliss of being in a vacuum is like listening to white noise. This might be his head talking, but oddity was nothing new to him anymore. After years of shit, he probably had the right to do whatever he wants.

After a few blocks however, he started hearing some noise. Just regular, human noise. He turned to another street to find a small crowd of boys and a few cars, congregated together in the middle of the road. Chanyeol thought of why someone would even think about blocking a street, but there were loads of the latter here and the neighbourhood was usually obsolete and quiet. He was actually surprised to find some form of energised youth here because the people he’d seen pass by around were old people.

They were playing football*, though it involved a great deal of pushing and shoving and roughhousing. They seemed to be of Chanyeol’s age, give or take, and the latter hoped that he might have some acquaintances in this neighbourhood after all. One of them kicked the ball too far and, by chance, it lands just next to Chanyeol’s foot, its beaten form rolling miserably into the toes of his shoes.

One boy immediately sprints forwards towards Chanyeol, presumably to get the ball. Chanyeol kicks it feebly towards him and the boy hollers gratefully, picking up the ball as it rolled towards him. As the seconds went in however, Chanyeol became increasingly aware that the boy’s eyes seemed to have frozen on Chanyeol completely. The boy just looked and looked and his football game seemed to be put on pause, and he casts away the ball carelessly.

“Come look at this one, girls,” the boy shouts to his mates, and unexpected dread settled into Chanyeol. He tenses up as they all turned their heads like clockwork and immediately scrambled to surround him, circling him like vultures. Chanyeol swallows dryly, unsure of what to do. They hadn’t displayed aggression yet, but they were jeering at him, pointing and prodding at the air with their skinny limbs.

_“Oh it’s him.”_

_“Oh, it is. The one we…?”_

_“Yes, that one.”_

Then it clicked to Chanyeol. They were _the boys_. Stone-throwing, violent wretches. Chanyeol vaguely recognised each of them by their figures. They all looked different, but the snarling grin was uniform and apparent in each and every single one of them. He took a few steps back, thinking of how to flee the situation. They already threw rocks onto his mother’s car, so what other reason did he have to believe they were good people? There were none. Slowly, Chanyeol pivots one foot, ready to run.

“Hey Baekhyun!” one of the runts said, his voice like a megaphone, “Is this the one you wanted?”

Chanyeol swivelled his eyes. How could he have not spotted him before? Byun Baekhyun sat atop of the hood of his beaten-up car, and Chanyeol could see his glinting eyes for miles away.

Now Chanyeol faced a true problem. Was this a real threat?

Baekhyun gazes for a little while, and Chanyeol was hyper aware that he was being acknowledged. The boy slowly slid off the hood of his car and walked towards the circle. Immediately the boys dispersed to make way for him, chattering amongst themselves.

Chanyeol counted himself as pretty tall, but despite Baekhyun’s much smaller, petite figure, his eyes brought Chanyeol to the height of his knees. He radiated some sort of powerful energy that Chanyeol couldn't put a finger on. His presence was noisy, screaming, and Chanyeol felt weak at his knees when their eyes locked. If he had a meltdown now, things would become dangerous. And Yura’s not at home…

Then Baekhyun walks away without saying anything.

Suddenly, the boys immediately erupted. It was as if Baekhyun spoke to them with his bare presence. Chanyeol was all too ready to run. One of them grabs the lapel of his coat.

“Hi!” he said, and Chanyeol’s brain whirls on confusion, trying to calculate whether it was a threat. The boy smacks his back, albeit a little to painfully since Chanyeol doubled over, but the runt smiled too happily to notice.

“Happy to see you settle in nicely,” he said. He had been the boy with the megaphone voice. His hair settled in wild curls and they fell about his face, though the bottom half of his scalp was shaved. He had a grin that took up all of his face, and eyes the size of almonds. Both of his knees were skinned raw but he didn't seem to feel any pain.

“U-Umm…” Chanyeol stuttered. His mind couldn't settle, because the threat seemed to completely diminish and turned inwards on itself. The boy seemed so friendly now. His left ear had three piercings, all silver but all in different shapes; yet his right ear had none. They were immediately reminiscent of Baekhyun’s twelve shiny piercings, and suddenly Chanyeol found the jewellery sinister.

“Don’t worry. We have no weapons now, only narcos. We have only poison,” he grinned, and Chanyeol wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be more afraid or relieved. He pats Chanyeol’s back and bore him a smile, in which Chanyeol spots a single silver tooth.

“My name is Jongdae. And here are the ladies. Here is Jongin, the other Jongin, Kris, Junmyeon, and little baby Soo. Glad to see that you are not dead,” Jongdae offers him a silvery grin. Chanyeol blinked at them all.

By _Jongin and the other Jongin_ , Jongdae must’ve meant twins. It seemed like so. Both boys were lean and tanned, and had hair the colour of light mousse. Some kind of playfulness kindled within their eyes. Each bore two piercings on the same ear, and that seemed to be the only way to tell them apart because the two wore the same clothing. Chanyeol wasn’t so sure which one was Jongin, and which one was the “other” Jongin.

Kris was the tallest of them all, and he bore four silver studs across one ear. His hair was shaved into a buzz cut and the single striking feature of him was his incredibly large shoes, with thick shoelaces. Beside him was Junmyeon, presumably a little older than the rest of the boys. He was a little more sculpted around his torso and his cheeks seemed full, as if he always had something in his mouth. He had four piercings, but you could see that he was tasteful in his choice of jewellery.

Then there was Soo. Chanyeol figured he really couldn’t be more than nine, perhaps ten at most. He was the dirtiest out of all boys, with his cheeks dusted with earth. If Jongdae had a smile that took half the size of his face, then Soo was likewise with his eyes. Upon his head were big aviator goggles. Soo had a plaster across his nose and his sweater trailed to his knees and he had one, small silver hoop on his earlobe, dangling innocently in the air, but Chanyeol found this uniformity eerie. He had, undoubtedly, ran into a gang.

“You seem shocked,” Jongdae chuckled.

“Well…” Chanyeol opened his mouth and closed on itself. Every day just seemed to be getting more and more bizarre. Here he was, in the presence of boys who threw stones at his wake, yet they presented themselves as cheerful, safe men. What was he supposed to trust? What on earth was really going on?

“Well, we shouldn’t bother you any further! Where were you going, eh?”

“T-The—the—” Chanyeol stammered. His legs were still shaking, and he fought to compose himself. He was unsure whether he should be fearful or not, “I—I was—was—going to the shops.”

“We’ll take you there,” Jongdae grinned. Chanyeol hadn’t had time to move his legs before he was practically pushed into one of the cars. It was a sleek red convertible, slightly beaten up by the looks of it. The roof was open and Chanyeol had fell into the car, groaning, trying to sit upright. The seats were torn in multiple places, and some of the sponge stuff sprawled over the leg space. Next to him was the driver’s seat. Jongin and the… other Jongin climbed at the back, their grins identical. There seemed to be nobody driving the car, until a small head bobbed round and tiny little Soo climbed into the driver’s seat, clambering over and taking hold of the wheel. Chanyeol then saw that the pedals were actually equipped with platforms, so that Soo could actually step on the gas and brakes. Chanyeol’s face fell, and the twins behind him laughed.

“A-Are you…” Chanyeol swallowed, “Do you have a licence?”

“No,” the little boy said cheerily, showing Chanyeol his tooth gap, and he promptly lowers his goggles to his eyes. Chanyeol looked around and saw that Jongdae had clambered into the other car, green and scratched up, similarly a convertible with the roof open. Jongdae was at the front, while Kris and Junmyeon perched at the back. Baekhyun, too, had quietly climbed into his Chevrolet, lazily staring at the group.

“First one there wins!” Jongdae hollers with his megaphone voice, and if Chanyeol wasn’t afraid then, he was now.

His head was thrown back as little Soo stepped on the pedals and the car screeched at once, speeding off. Chanyeol screamed throughout the whole ride, holding onto dear life. There were no seatbelts in sight. The twins behind him seemed to be overjoyed with glee. Soo drifted every single one of his turns, his wheels smoking behind him. He was a brilliant driver, but the other two were clearly maestros. Both of them zoomed far ahead, and Baekhyun seemed to have overtook them by miles. Little Soo however, clearly had a lifeless spirit, because he stepped on the gas even more and sped ahead.

The older boys were already ahead, but it was clear that they had slowed down a little at the end to let the smaller boy win. Soo screeched to a stop at the end destination and he shouted gleefully, clapping his little hands together. Baekhyun came second and Jongdae trailed last, in which the man climbed out of his car and swung the boy around in his arms, shouting.

“Beaten again, by the lightning-speed little prodigy Do Kyungsoo!” Jongdae grinned, and little Soo cheered. Many of the shoppers looked up, but they seemed to be familiar by the boys and simply looked the other way, immediately scurrying from view. Again, another sinister hint.

Chanyeol was breathless. He stumbled out of the car, gasping, holding onto himself. His head spun a little too fast and he almost collapsed, caught by the grinning twins, and his eyes focused onto Jongdae’s big smile.

“You’re welcome! Anytime!” he boomed, and Chanyeol flinched. The twins let him go, returning into the car. The rest of them all vanished in a flash of smoke in their cars, hooting, speeding away.

Baekhyun’s Chevrolet remained in view. So did the owner of the car himself.

Baekhyun looked down at him, all of his silver piercings glinting in the lowering sun. He gave Chanyeol an unreadable look, gazing at him for a few moments.

“Who—” Chanyeol gasped, the words choked up in his throat, “Who _are_ you?”

Not a word was returned.

Baekhyun blinked at him, staring, before he himself retreated back into his car and speeding away.

Chanyeol was speechless, so to say.

His appetite now diminished, he trailed home without buying anything, his head still in spirals. He shuffled home and fell back onto his bed, overwhelmed by adrenaline, falling into a sleep that was filled with speed and shrouds of fog that blinded his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Football, as in soccer
> 
> Hey kids! Baekyuu here! As I promised, this chapter didn't take too long to wait!  
> Unfortunately it's a bit of a sucky chapter, yeah, sorry. I promise the next one is a little bit more exciting!!!
> 
> Leave your thoughts and comments down below! I try to reply to every single one and so far I think I'm doing pretty well :-D And of course, if you haven't upvoted [or site equivalent]... why haven't you, hmm?
> 
> See you soon guys!


	6. The Warehouse

_ “Remind myself in this smudged glass  
That pretty isn't everything, you punk-ass _   
_ Always hard to see past the surface when it looks so perfect _   
_ But our eyes will disguise dirt on purpose, you listening?” _

_ West Coast, The Neighbourhood _

* * *

“Ow!” Chanyeol groaned, pulling his feet into himself. Yura was already dressed in her work clothes, her face hinted with makeup. Yura had smacked the part of his body where the blankets didn’t cover and Chanyeol whined as he rubbed the side of his feet.

“I don’t care if you sleep all day in my house, but at least stay alive and eat,” Yura pushed a tray of cereal into his lap. Chanyeol shrunk back as he held a bowl of cornflakes and milk, blinking at the lights. He had just woken up and he hasn’t changed his clothes yet. He had probably slept off the night again because the sun was filtering through his room, and Chanyeol could see the dust floating around the light.

“I bought some ready-meals that you only need to heat up, because I’m worried about the amount of skipped meals I’m counting,” Yura poked his arm, to which Chanyeol muffled through his cereal in protest. Yura wasn’t really exaggerating. Chanyeol did lose a lot of weight within the past year. He used to have some form of build, and then his muscles deteriorated and now he’s just… skin.

“How was yesterday?” Chanyeol asked, stirring his cereal. He liked to let the cereal sit for a little and eat them when they’re soft and soggy. When he had abdominal surgery to stitch up his wounds, soft fruits and cereal was all he could eat, and he developed this habit. Crunching sounds reminded the sound of his father’s gritting teeth, and he always tried his best to forget his father.

“Nobody died,” Yura said, somewhat reassuringly, which was typical of her, “Went out for dinner.”

“That’s nice.”

“I’ll get you some sort of travel card soon,” Yura swiped away her fringe, “So you can go downtown. This place is hopeless for any commercialism. And then you can go to your appointments also.”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol nodded, spooning cereal into his mouth. 

They stared at each other for a long while.

“Don’t die,” Yura finally said, before pivoting on her heels and leaving without another word. Chanyeol waved to her dismissively, and he hears the door downstairs shut and her car revving away.

Chanyeol skipped downstairs, and turned on the television to white noise. He filled up his bowl with another portion of cereal and splashed milk into it. He pondered about what he’ll do for today, looking around, and decided that he’d be useful for once and clean up the house.

During his trauma, he used to clean his bedroom daily. Sometimes the whole house if he felt like it. He used to wash and air his sheets, hoping to get rid of the traces of his father. Wherever his father touched, he wanted to get rid of it. Then the abuse started happening daily, sometimes multiple times a day, and Chanyeol entered into the most horrific phase of his life where he was constantly cleaning his sheets, cleaning his bedroom, cleaning the house. When he came into the hospital, he was misdiagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, with his reported erratic cleaning habits. When the habits stopped completely when he was admitted, the doctors were at a loss.

He cleaned the house now, without any intent of wiping out anyone's trace. He cleaned silently in the midst of his white noise, and fell into a rhythm when the ringing noise started in his ears. 

When he moved furniture around to clean up underneath them, he found ants crawling around the dust. He wasn't so sure whether he was hallucinating them or not, but they felt so real, crawling across his hands and feet. Chanyeol frowned and got up, looking at the clock. It was just a little after 8 in the morning.

For some reason, he stopped and rooted himself on the spot, staring at the clock. Ants enclosed his vision, dotting it like white noise. The ants began to reveal themselves out of the shadows of the furniture and blanketed the walls. They swarmed the clock, circling it as if in a hurry, and Chanyeol stared at the ants in awe at their uniformity. They seemed to whisper amongst themselves; a low, hushed noise, holding brisk conversations…

There were too many ants now. They moved like liquid as they filled the room like unwanted pipe leaks. The ants were now up to Chanyeol’s ankle, their whispers getting louder. Chanyeol simply stood and stared at the clock, fixated. Ants flooded the room now and they had filled in half of the house, floating around Chanyeol’s midsection. There seemed to be an endless amount of the six-legged black soldiers as they continue to spill into the room, crawling into Chanyeol’s face. They were now up to his eyes, their little feet now crawling against the sticky substance of Chanyeol’s pupils, chewing into his orbs and crawling inside his brain…

Chanyeol blinked.

The ants disappeared.

Chanyeol found himself overwhelmingly tired now, and saw that his feet had gone red. He sat down, wondering how he’d became so exhausted. He turned to the clock and expected to see the clock to show him a little after eight.

It was in fact twelve at noon now. He had stood there for four hours.

Chanyeol raked a hand through his hair, letting out a deep sigh. Visions were dangerous, but there was one thing more dangerous amongst his symptoms: catatonic episodes. Chanyeol could be doing anything in the world and he’d unexpectedly turn into stone, and would stay like so until his brain decided it had enough. It wasn’t exactly prevalent per se, but… it was something worth noting.

Maybe the cleaning can wait for now.

Chanyeol rummaged through the cupboards, finding Yura’s aforementioned ready foods. He picked one at random and shoved it into the microwave, punching numbers according to the packet instructions. 

He ate his lunch with his medicine. Now that was taken care of, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do.

More household chores? Chanyeol looked out of the kitchen window and found Yura’s backyard. Chanyeol hadn’t exactly paid attention to the back garden when he ran away from the vision of his father, but now that he looked at it in broad daylight, it certainly needed some care.

He went out to the garden. It wasn’t bewildering, but Yura sure never took care of it. He saw out to the garden next door and noticed that it was the same. Perhaps he could take up a job of weeding out gardens?

Chanyeol nicked a pair of plastic gloves from the kitchen and went to work. This was a totally random job, but he just didn't want to look like a total slob in the house; moreover, something to do keeps the thoughts in his head at bay.

So he set to work. He crouched at the nearest patch and started weeding. Much to his amusement, there were many anthills within the patches of weed. Chanyeol sighed, because ants were so mundane yet they would appear in his vision; whenever he saw an ant he’d have difficulties telling whether it was real or his brain conjuring it up. Seeing an ant at an unconventional place, however, meant that what he’s seeing wasn’t real. But how could one tell that apart, when your own brain tricks you that the unreal stuff you’re seeing… are real?

Chanyeol worked in silence, listening to the roots being pulled apart from the ground as he unweeded the garden. He was happily uninterrupted, for a while at least, until he unexpectedly felt something small hit his back.

“Ow!” Chanyeol exclaimed of the sudden pain, and a small pebble tumbled underneath his shoes. He whipped around and saw Byun Baekhyun standing in his very wake, hands pocketed inside his shorts, staring at him with all of his twelve silver piercings.

“Jeez. I have a name, you know?” Chanyeol hissed, before he stopped and frowned. 

Chanyeol had not, in fact, introduced himself, or stated his name. Byun Baekhyun simply appeared out of nowhere and suddenly he was just part of his new life. Byun Baekhyun probably knew him just about as much as Chanyeol knew him, which wasn’t very much at all.

Chanyeol stood facing him, taking off his gloves. Chanyeol placed his hands on his hips and offered out a hand.

“My name is Chanyeol. Park Chanyeol,” he said, not exactly hoping for a reply. When Chanyeol’s outstretched hand stays untouched, he retracts it and sighed.

“Get out of my garden, please? Property trespassing is illegal,” Chanyeol said curtly. Baekhyun doesn’t move and Chanyeol breathed in deeply, sighing.

“You’re a weird one. I don’t even know how you went into the garden unnoticed,” Chanyeol shook his head. He discarded his gloves and stared pointedly at Baekhyun, wondering whether the latter was made of stone or was just very good at standing still.

“I said _get out_ ,” Chanyeol repeated again, a little more firmly this time. He receives no response and he raised his hands up dismissively, tilting his head.

“Fine! Fine. You don’t wanna talk, you wanna creepily follow me around. I get it,” Chanyeol said, throwing his arms about before flopping them into his sides. He sighed, because he felt so awkward. It was like talking into a wall, yet you knew somehow the wall was alive. 

He blew out a deep breath and retired, taking a seat in one of the plastic chairs that was set out in the yard. Interestingly enough, Baekhyun took the one next to him. 

Chanyeol shot glances at him discreetly, as if trying to figure out his identity by his visage. One thing that struck Chanyeol as odd was his piercings, and their presence still haunted his conscience. What were they, what what purpose did they serve? Some sort of ranking? He had twelve, while the rest of his cronies had four at most. It was definitely a symbol but what they meant, Chanyeol didn’t know.

“What’s with the… you know,” Chanyeol gestured to his ears, this time not exactly expecting a reply. At this point, trying to hold a conversation with Baekhyun was just to amuse himself, because by now Chanyeol knew he won’t get an answer. Baekhyun just stared at him and Chanyeol could not find meaning in the depths of his eyes.

“For fun?” Chanyeol circulated his fingers around his ears, gesturing, “A tally? Body count? How many people you’ve killed?”

Baekhyun said nothing.

“I met this guy once,” Chanyeol said, referring to his time back in the hospital, but he felt that maybe it’s not time to reveal his hidden agenda to strangers quite yet, “He had loads of piercings. More than you. Maybe ten on each ear. When I met him I saw him take them off one by one. He’s like this punk type. Loads of tattoos. When he took them all off I saw that his ears were full of holes, like, you know, trypophobia type shit. Eventually I found out that he pierced his ears to self harm, and he didn’t want anybody knowing, so he took the whole punk lifestyle just to hide the fact he’s suicidal.”

Chanyeol leaned back, and saw that although Baekhyun remained silent, he was attentive all the same. Chanyeol saw that his own sleeves rode up to show his uniformed scars and he pulled his sleeves down hastily.

“Then sometime later he cut off his ears. You know, like Van Gogh. He died of infection. Septic shock. He looked like he’d been shot, earhole to earhole, from where he’s bleeding. I’ll never forget what he looked like.”

Chanyeol looked at Baekhyun now. The image of the pierced dead man doesn’t reflect back. Clearly, Baekhyun’s show of silver was a mark of pride than humility. What kind of pride it was, Chanyeol has yet to know.

“You run a gang, don’t you? That must be some sort of membership.”

No answer. Chanyeol thought of little Soo, who had a little hoop dangling on one of his ears. Then he thought of the neighbourhood, and how desolate it was. He had hoped to live a quiet life, yet here he was, talking to the Alpha of the group. Such was life.

Chanyeol leaned towards Baekhyun, trying to level their eyes together, but Baekhyun’s eyes were too intense to stare into. Instead Chanyeol looked at the floor, lowering his own sight, speaking in a hushed tone.

“Why are you here, then?” Chanyeol said, before pausing as he thought of what to say next, “Have you come to kill me?”

Baekhyun doesn’t grant any replies.

Exhausted of the fruitless conversation, Chanyeol sighed. He got up from the plastic chair and looked at Baekhyun one last time, before going back to his own house, a little disappointed .

* * *

Chanyeol was strumming on his guitar, perched on the sofa before he heard keys jangle outside. Yura stepped into the house, stumbling in her heels before she kicked them away, one heel flying off into the living room. Yura immediately crashed next to Chanyeol and leaned her head into his shoulders, sighing.

“What do you work as?” Chanyeol asked, realising that he never bothered to ask all those years. Yura looked at Chanyeol for a little bit and made a popping sound with her mouth.

“Secretary,” she yawned, “You know, scavenging on stuff the boss doesn’t want to do himself.”

Chanyeol raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

Yura pulled off her skin-coloured stockings from underneath her skirt, and the flesh of her legs appeared. Chanyeol winced when he saw Yura’s formerly skinned knees. They were hardly noticeable now, but if you knew where to look, you could spot where the scars and the discolourations are.

A vivid image passed his mind. There was him, lying in a pool of blood, knife deep inside him, Yura next to him. His father, on the run, just a few blocks down. His mother, locking all the doors in the house frantically, cutting cables, throwing every phone in the house out of the second floor window. Yura, forcing the window open, climbing down and, in a frantic hurry, fell down and skinned her knees, as well as twisted her ankle. Chanyeol didn’t know the rest of the story and only knew it by ear, but Yura had limped and burst into their next door neighbour’s screaming for help. They called the police and the ambulance, and thus begun Chanyeol’s road to… some sort of recovery if he could call it that.

It was the first time Chanyeol had saw Yura like that. She was normally calm and collected. Back then, she was at the brink of hysteria.

If there was anything he regretted, it was breaking her heart.

Yura became aware that Chanyeol’s sight was fixated on her knees, and that he had gone far too silent. Yura lowered her skirt and patted his shoulders.

“Well, none of that ever again,” Yura said reassuringly, “You’re here now.”

Chanyeol swallowed.

“Is he really in jail?”

“Yeah,” Yura nodded, “Mother said so. She made the order.”

“Knowing her, she probably hid him back in the house and never let him go to jail,” Chanyeol laughed bitterly, but he pulled a grim face afterwards, wondering what are the chances that had happened.

* * *

_ Clack. _

_ Clack. _

_ Clack _ .

Chanyeol’s eyes blinked open wearily, and he squeezes them shut again at the sight of his bedroom light that he habitually leaves on. 

After talking with Yura, they ate dinner together and watched a series for a bit, before he went upstairs to sleep.

It’s still night-time judging by what’s outside the window. He was comfortable in his pajamas and his hair was messy from sleep, and Chanyeol wondered what could’ve woken him up because he was in what he called a pretty decent slumber.

_ Clack _ .

_ Really? _ Chanyeol thought, rubbing his face. Truly a nocturnal animal, Baekhyun was. He just comes and goes and does as he pleases. Chanyeol wasn’t a strict rule abider, but the boy really pisses him off sometimes. What was the purpose of trying to build acquaintance if you won’t talk?

Chanyeol laid in his bed, purposefully ignoring the call. Another persistent pebble clunked against his window and he groans quietly, throwing away his covers and marching towards the window, opening it up.

It wasn’t Baekhyun. Turns out it was several of his cronies. Jongdae and the twins perch on a green convertible, the colour handsomely darkened by the moonlight. Jongdae gave him a grin that took about half of his face, and in his hand was a pretty sizeable rock. Chanyeol gave him a look of shocked protest, truly hoping that Jongdae wasn’t aiming that rock for the window, but he did it anyway.

Chanyeol flinched, knowing for sure it was going to shatter the window glass, but Jongdae had serious talent for accuracy. The rock simply slipped through the window and landed onto Chanyeol’s hands with minimal effort. Chanyeol shook his head, wondering why on earth this skill was ever useful, before he turned the rock over and saw that Jongdae had written something at the back of it.

_ Come out! _

Chanyeol scrunched his brows. Seriously. _Seriously._ What time was it? A squint at the wall clock told Chanyeol it was a little shy of 11 in the evening. They interrupted his sleep, too.

Chanyeol stuck outside his head. Making sure that Jongdae’s eyes fixed on him, Chanyeol shook his head to send out a clear message.

None of the boys spoke, since doing so would probably alarm Yura, so Jongdae clasped his hands together like a beggar and pouted. It was the ugliest, pug-like pout but it made Chanyeol grit his teeth and sigh. On one hand, he’d only met these bunch once, and he’d already established them as _fucking crazy for sure_. But on the other… curiosity really ate at him. This was an invitation for adventure. What was more tempting for a human being?

In the end, Chanyeol quietly shimmied out of his pajamas and pulled on a turtleneck and thick socks. If he was going to die in the hands of dangerous people, then at least it wasn’t because of hypothermia.

He stepped downstairs as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Yura up. His sister doesn’t have rights to set him curfew, but going out this late when Chanyeol knows _nobody_ in the neighbourhood can raise some suspicions. It’s probably best that Chanyeol keeps it quiet… at least for a while.

He pulls on a coat and grabs his keys, exiting the house as quietly as possible. In the moonlight, he could make out Jongdae’s annoyingly cheerful face, and an identical set of twins behind him. Chanyeol stands a few feet away from the car, crossing his arms, sighing.

“You know, I’m…” Chanyeol blew breath out from his teeth, “I’m not a really big fan of going out with strangers.”

“We’re not strangers, we met yesterday,” Jongdae grinned as he whispered. Chanyeol didn't know how he could sound like he was shouting while he was whispering, but apparently that was physically possible.

“That doesn’t really count.”

“Oh come on. You know Baekhyun, right?”

Truthfully, Chanyeol really doesn’t. Knowing his name at all was some kind of stab in the dark and he considered himself lucky to get it right.

“That… really doesn’t mean anything,” Chanyeol frowned.

“Yes it does. The enemy of my enemy is my friend!”

Chanyeol’s mouth opened, and he could see the twins sniggering in the background. Jongdae smiled, not realising the true meaning of the phrase. Not only he was annoying, but he also seems to be… not properly educated so to speak.

“That’s not how you use the phrase,” Chanyeol corrects him tactfully.

“Is it not?” Jongdae’s thick eyebrows raised to the curls of his fringe, “Then a friend of my friend is my friend.”

The twins at the back guffawed into even more silent laughter. Chanyeol simply gave up and climbed into the car, one because he had enough interest to go, and two it was so painful to hear Jongdae talk and spout out phrases that he doesn’t even know how to use. 

Chanyeol sincerely hoped that Yura didn't wake up and notice he was missing. He was surely allowed to go outside whenever he liked, but doing it at night just makes it all the more suspicious. Yura might also question what on earth he’d been doing, and Chanyeol loved his sister too much to lie to her. He just hopes that he comes back all in one piece… hopefully anyway.

“Where are we going?” Chanyeol looked around, noticing that they were still within the neighbourhood but in parts that he hasn’t seen before. Jongdae toothily smiles at him.

“The Warehouse,” he said simply.

“That’s the name of your hideout?” Chanyeol murmured, half a genuine question and half rhetorically. Jongdae doesn’t answer and drove ahead, Chanyeol jerking back into his seat as the car zoomed ahead.

Unlike Baekhyun’s loud Chevrolet, this car was a little quieter. Jongdae drove fast enough so that Chanyeol felt the wind slap around his face, but it wasn’t so extravagantly fast that he felt like he was about to lose his heart. Chanyeol tried to remember all the turns, but it was all too many to remember.

“Jesus Christ, slow down,” Chanyeol hissed, gripping at the edges of the seat. They drove past the meadow, where Chanyeol vividly remembered he’s been struck by a car nearby and Baekhyun had dragged him out to patch him up. Clearly it was the outskirts of the neighbourhood because Chanyeol could now only see fields and fields of grass, with barely any houses in sight. He tried to squint through the night, trying to find their destination… or perhaps he’d been dragged out here to be killed.

Well, he wasn’t. At least not now anyway.

A few minutes later, what looked like some sort of oversized shed came to view, and Chanyeol only realised then it was a warehouse. Actually, it was more like a farm slash warehouse slash house. It looked all dark and abandoned, noiseless and lifeless, and Chanyeol once again thought whether he was brought here to be killed. Then again, if he was, they probably would’ve had better sense to tie him up, no?

“You-have-a-rrived-at-your-des-ti-na-tion,” Jongdae booms in a GPS voice, and Chanyeol wondered whether it was a good idea to invest in earplugs. None of the three bothered to open the car door and simply climbed out of it, so, _when in Rome_ , Chanyeol (unfashionably) tried to follow suit. He wobbled at his knees at first but steadied himself, looking at the eerie building, stitching his eyebrows together. He was supposed to be scared, but after years of facing fear, the emergency services in his brain simply refuses to work and he has to manually calculate whether this was a risk to his life or not.

“So, what am I doing?” Chanyeol caught up with Jongdae and the twins, stepping over the grassy plains. Jongdae’s piercings slivered in the moonlight and so did his silver tooth, and he gave Chanyeol a grin so wide it might’ve lit up the whole meadow.

“We thought we’d invite you for housewarming,” he grinned.

“Usually that happens in the house I’m _moving_ in, unless it’s _your_ housewarming party.”

“It’s yours, you know, for moving into the neighbourhood?” Jongdae’s thick brows scrunched. Chanyeol wanted to rub his own face.

“That’s not how you use that word.”

“It isn’t?” Jongdae said innocently, and the twins snickered behind his back. Chanyeol got the gist that Jongdae wasn’t as bright as his toothy smile.

“Oh well. Welcome, anyway,” Jongdae opens the heavy door for him. Chanyeol couldn’t see past the slither of the gap, and he steps back reluctantly. He hated the dark.

“This is too much for me,” Chanyeol said honestly, raising his hands up dismissively, but the twins grappled his arms and pushed him through the door. Chanyeol gasped, feeling the floor hit his palms. He looked around, and all that he saw were silver blinking back at him.

Now there’s surely something behind the silver piercings. Chanyeol had just entered a dark room full of 30-or-so people and their ears were dotted with it. They were all boys, more or less about his age. It felt like entering a party at 2am, where most people had either knocked out or went to sleep, and it was all just quiet. They sat around the floor playing cards or drank. They first looked at Chanyeol in a hostile manner, but when they saw that he was with Jongdae and the twins, they simply nodded and looked away.

Chanyeol broke out in cold sweat. He’s dead for sure. He’s run into some sort of gang, and this was their hideout.

Jongdae lead him through another door. This time light filtered through it, and Chanyeol shocked himself by stepping into what looked like a relatively normal home. It was more open-spaced, and most walls had been diminished, but… it was… unexpected for sure.

It looked like a car parking basement, but with furniture and nicer lights, and Chanyeol didn’t know how to describe it.

Jongdae insists him to sit down, and Chanyeol forces himself to do so, on what seems to be a worn out leather couch. The twins sat on either side of him, their identical grins flashing at Chanyeol. Then one by one, the rest of the cronies came. Junmyeon and Kris sat on the other couch, nodding at him silently. Soo came a little later after noises of clangs, the little boy cheerily hopping into view with his sooty face and aviator hat bouncing on his head. 

“Alright, that looks like all of us,” Jongdae clapped his hands.

“Not _all_ ,” Kris spoke. Chanyeol was thoroughly surprised at the deepness of his voice. It seemed like a shock to hear everyone else talk, because in comparison to Jongdae’s booming voice, they all seemed to be quiet. 

“Not all?” Jongdae sounded genuinely surprised, “Not all, not all… Oh. Oh, of course. Silly me. I shall fetch him.”

Jongdae ran and disappeared from view. Chanyeol wrung his hands awkwardly as silence filled the room.

“Don’t worry, you’re not here to be killed,” Junmyeon spoke. Chanyeol looked up to see a kindly face. Junmyeon had this handsome, striking figure; the type that women would probably fawn over. It was unbelievable he was around Chanyeol’s age of nineteen, because Junmyeon looked like one of those men in commercials that were too pretty to be true. He sounded fair and sultry, though his four piercings snapped Chanyeol back to reality that these people… something was wrong, terribly wrong, with all of them.

“Am I not?” Chanyeol amused the conversation, but he was glad that he was finally able to talk to someone properly. Junmyeon gave him a small smile and shook his head, but before Chanyeol could inquire further, Jongdae returned into the room with someone else.

The room suddenly swam with unexplainable energy that seemed to shift the mood. At least that’s what it felt like to Chanyeol anyway. Byun Baekhyun had entered the room with his multitude of bruises and scars, all of his twelve piercings glinting in the bright basement light. He seemed to acknowledge Chanyeol’s presence because his piercing eyes glazed at him for a few seconds, and Chanyeol felt fazed until the other boy looked away.

“Well, welcome, Chanyeol,” Jongdae grinned, “So basically, you moved into the neighbourhood recently, right? So we thought we’d, you know, give you an official welcome, and all that. From now on we’re your friends.”

“Thanks…?” Chanyeol scratched his neck. Nobody else in the room seemed to like Jongdae speaking, because they were either not paying attention or yawning. Jongdae however, remains oblivious to all of this, and continues like a television commercial.

“Well, so, if you ever feel like you’re in trouble, you’re safe here,” Jongdae clapped his hands, “You won’t be expected to carry out any duties—”

“ _Duties_?” Chanyeol interrupted, but Jongdae carried on speaking.

“But of course, no ratting us out, because that’d be really bad for you,” Jongdae continued, “So we offer you safety, and you just keep quiet about us.”

“I don’t get it,” Chanyeol frowned, “Why are you doing this? Why am I here in the first place?”

Junmyeon stood up, clasping his hands. There must be some sort of hierarchy to this because Jongdae immediately looked down to the floor and sat down. Everybody else seemed to be glad that the speaker changed.

“Due to your past circumstances, we thought it’s in your best interests to protect you,” Junmyeon spoke softly, “But due to who we are, and what we do, it’s best that you keep quiet about our occupations.”

“And that occupation is?”

“We transport and sell drugs,” Junmyeon said calmly, and Chanyeol’s blood ran cold, “Don’t worry, you won’t be forced to do anything you don’t want to do, and we don’t expect you to. Just think of us as friends who will protect you.”

“Protect me from what? You don’t know me. _Past circumstances?_ I’ve only met you a few days ago and you act like you know everything about me. You don’t know what I’m afraid of,” Chanyeol said, but his palms were already sweaty. He looked around the room, looking for doors, wondering whether his father would burst into the room any time soon and rip away his clothes. This slow onset of panic didn’t go unnoticed by everyone else, and they all tensely looked at Chanyeol to anticipate what he’d do next.

“We don’t know either,” Junmyeon said, wringing his fingers, “But _he_ does.”

He nodded towards the boy with twelve piercings. Baekhyun’s silver hoops and studs blinked at him like eyes, all-knowing and all-seeing. It came to Chanyeol’s realisation that perhaps Kim Minseok was right. He was very, _very_ afraid of new things, and that Yura hasn’t told him everything before he moved into this… “obsolete” neighbourhood.

Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6th chapter, yay! I hope it wasn’t too long of a wait?
> 
> We will indeed have some exciting stuff happening soon. I know, I know, it’s a little bit boring now, but be patient ;)
> 
> Please do leave your thoughts in the comments! I’ve been replying to each one when possible and I’m always thrilled to hear what you think of the story : D And of course, click that lil upvote button [or site equivalent] up there. Your support helps me a ton <3
> 
> See you soon… hopefully!


	7. The Traphouse, and Paranoia

_"Extraordinarily pretty teeth!  
Beauty lingers out of reach..." _

_Deadcrush, Alt-J_

* * *

Chanyeol felt the hands glide across his body, as if they appreciated his beautiful figure. Chanyeol had grown up to be a fine young man; so fine, so lovely, that his own father could not resist his own temptations. Breaths were spoken into his ears and he so badly wanted to drown the man’s songs of moans and sighs, hands roaming against his torso. Chanyeol lets out a shuddering sob when the man reaches to stroke him between his legs, and the tears came out once more when he felt his father’s rough hands touch his delicateness. Chanyeol tried so hard to be so resistant, untearable and of tough material, but his legs quiver and gave away his fragility. He had stopped trying to call for help a long time ago. The world was cruel and it abandoned him in the dark.

“So lovely, ‘Yeollie,” the man whom he supposed to trust with his life whispered, and Chanyeol cried out as his father squeezed the appendage below his stomach. Chanyeol did not feel pleasure. He never felt any pleasure. It only brought him shame, shame, and more shame, and the shame would eventually shape his life and his very being, engulfing him in its entirety.

“Please stop,” Chanyeol whispered. He uttered this plea over and over again, hoping that somehow, someday, the torture would stop, “Please stop. Please stop.”

“Don’t you like it, ‘Yeollie?” the man whispers against his skin, and Chanyeol gulps a sob as the tears fell sideways about his face, “Am I being too rough on you?”

“I don’t want it,” Chanyeol cried, coughing as the man peppered kisses onto his neck, hating how his father was so gentle with him, so careful. It made Chanyeol question his shame. His father always told him to tell him whenever it hurts, if he felt uncomfortable—but he never stopped.

“Maybe we should try something different today?” he replies, beating his plea around the bush, and Chanyeol swallows a choked sob. He felt lips latching onto his neck and Chanyeol whimpers as he felt the marks being made—latch, suck, and go, like a carnivore toying with food. He did not want to do this “differently”. He did not want to do it at all.

Chanyeol always remembered how people reacted. Six feet, and defenseless? Toned with muscle, and no fight at all? Equipped with a voice and without the ability to say no? Like Chanyeol had not tried everything in this mortal realm to stop the shame, self-blame and guilt he’d face for the rest of his life? What was he, a fool?

The kisses on his neck faded, but Chanyeol never forgot the tactile memory they came with. Every single contact he felt, they scarred his skin like a nightmare. The nightmares would haunt him for every day in his life, and he would never, ever forget how he had felt then.

* * *

Chanyeol found himself lying face-down, his jacket still worn and his shoes the same manner. Chanyeol looked at the clock, and it was past noon—Yura was probably out. He should probably stop having irregular sleeping schedules, but when your life isn’t worth living, then time isn’t real.

He nuzzled into his pillow, but sighed when it produced some sort of scratching noise. He shuffled into the bathroom, donning the heaviness of his outside wear, looking into the mirror to find that stubbles had started to dot his face.

Chanyeol murmured, remembering that he hadn’t thought about his own toiletries. He looked around the bathroom for a razor anyway, finding a box of shitty ones, distastefully marketed for women and the plastic bright pink. Why is it labelled for women when razors has essentially the same purpose? Whatever. He popped one off from its cap, lathered his face with soap and went with it.

Just as he was about to finish, he nicked his face and he hissed, droplets of blood oozing out of the small cut. Fuck women’s razors.

He remembered how he did it in the hospital. Sehun had once nicked a butter knife from the kitchen, sharpened it on a loose tile from the bathrooms, and they took turns in grooming each other. Sehun’s hands were keen and delicate, despite the ruthless, careless cuts he made on his own body, and he had never once scratched Chanyeol in the process. They sort of took care of each other in that hospital, though Chanyeol really didn’t want to meet or see anything associated with the hospital at this point. Sehun was a nice guy, and they could’ve been the best of friends if they’d met in other circumstances… but he knew that if he met Sehun right now, both of them would just encourage each other into bad habits. Basically, just a circlejerk until suicide.

Sehun, if Chanyeol remembered correctly, was so much worse than he was. There was not a single bit of skin that was not covered by a scar. Even his face was nicked with razor cuts. Most of the doctors were at a loss because he just simply could not stop harming himself, so much at a loss that Sehun was sedated most of the time because they didn’t know how to deal with him. It made it worse that Chanyeol was there to encourage his habits, and vice versa. His skin was like… popcorn ceiling, except with such deep, white lines that Chanyeol have grown to fear, in the context of mortality.

Truth be told… he just wanted to get out of the hospital. He was still popping pills and fucking with the razor with Sehun when the nurses weren’t looking. Although he’d been mostly clean by the time he got out, he only fronted with less-than-abnormal behaviour, and that was why he got out. He just faked it. He still wanted to drive a nail on his skin by the time he got out… but he’d rather hold it off than stay in the damn nuthouse any longer.

Chanyeol went downstairs, his vision still hazy. He slumped into the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards for some toast. He closed the doors, haphazardly shoving raw bread into his mouth, before Yura’s figure appeared next to him like some apparition and he screamed.

“Y-Yura—“ he choked, thumping on his chest. What did he look like? He still had his jacket and shoes on, the latter caked with the meadow’s mud. He thought Yura had gone to work, so he put he guard down, and now…

“Where have you been all night?” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts. She was already dressed in her work clothes sans her make-up, her hair undone. Chanyeol just—he couldn’t help notice something on her ears. A silver stud sits on each of her lobes. Chanyeol knew it was nothing, but the thought fell down like a brick and reminded him of Byun Baekhyun’s twelve bijous all scattered across his lobes and shells. He couldn’t see these earrings any different now, but the shock that painted Chanyeol’s face made it look like he couldn’t answer Yura’s question in a straightforward way.

“Thinking up of a lie?” she said curtly. Chanyeol shook his head promptly.

“No…” he said slowly.

“You think I don’t know that you sneak out at night?” she grimaced, crossing her arms. Chanyeol pressed his lips together in a thin line.

Oh no—she knew, didn’t she? All these encounters with… with those boys. They were enough trouble already, and had scratched up his mother’s car. Yura didn’t like them herself. Now Chanyeol knew Yura wasn’t all so strict, and she had no right telling him what to do, but he really did not want to disappoint Yura all the same. He hung his head low in shame… he really shouldn’t lie to her face like that.

To his surprise, Yura sighed and hugged him. Chanyeol stared at the countertop, unsure of what she was doing and what he was supposed to do. Yura patted his shoulders and breathed quietly through her mouth.

“Listen, I have no rights to set you curfews, but you have to at least tell me if you have trouble sleeping,” she murmured, “I guess sleeping must… also be difficult for you, and I’m not gonna stop you having these midnight walks, but you have to start telling me whenever you’re having troubles so we can start fixing them.”

Oh.

She didn’t know, after all.

That was good now—he had a guise to justify his night out—but he felt terrible for lying. He wanted to open his mouth to tell her that actually, no, these men in beaten-up cars knock on my window every night to invite me to go outside, and sometimes that’s not it and I actually have hallucinations that make me run away from the house, but Yura was already housing him, feeding him and giving him money that he really didn’t want to put any more burden on her.

“I’m going to consult your doc if we can put you on some prescription to help you sleep—“

“No, Yura, I’m… I’m fine…” Chanyeol said, exasperated. Yura was starting to go into that mode of worry—and when she was worried, she was in some ways infinitely worse than his mother when in concern. He just spun around and walked away from her, and in their relationship, this was understood as the other wanted to leave this conversation.

“Fine. But please, Chanyeol. I’m here to talk with,” she said, and said nothing else. Chanyeol sat on the couch, shovelling bread into his mouth. Yura disappeared for a while, and when she came back her hair was up and her face was now matte with makeup.

“Weren’t you supposed to go ages ago?” Chanyeol asked. Yura pulls what’s meant to be a smile, but it looks like a grimace—because this is Yura, and she has limited emotion availability.

“Just called the boss that I needed to tend to you,” Yura said, “He knows I’m taking care of you, he understands if I need to stay home.”

“Good employer.”

Yura put on her heels, and saw that Chanyeol had put on white noise on the television. She frowned, but didn’t comment on it.

“I’m off now,” Yura said, “Remember to eat.”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t die,” she said, classic of Yura, before she went out. Chanyeol shrugged, and simply cranked the noise up until nothing sounded anymore.

* * *

Schizophrenia is not some demon disorder. So scarily has it been portrayed as… some terrifying virus, in which it inhibits its host and rots his brain, and convinces him into a killer. From there, the virus inside his head controls every single one of his actions… from his emotions, to the very tip of his fingers. He… would kill his loved ones, his family, the neighbourhood that watched over his back, then… well, you know, depending on the franchise and depending on how horribly uneducated the author is, he’d commit mass genocide, he’d harass his women, he’d hang the carcass of his victims upon his trophy room like some proud hunter. Oh, and notice that it’s a “he”. Only men are capable to commit manic atrocities, apparently.

But that couldn’t be so much further from the truth. Schizophrenia is not a virus, is not a disease. It is… well, much arguably debated, but most of it is a manifestation of the brain. It is not a rotting of the brain, it is in fact an overreaction of the brain. In fact most if not all symptoms of this disabling condition turns inwards on its victim—not outwards. It makes you… scared, it convinces you to be terrified. Sometimes it convinces you that you’re God, or a President, sometimes it convinces you that your fellow neighbours are some extraterrestrial creatures from outer space. Schizophrenia is like an elaborate trick. It does not inherently riddle you with emotions or sentiments—rather, it just convinces you. What you do for the rest of it, when you are convinced, is much up to the victim, just like how different people handle flu.

Now let’s just say, the brain convinces you that there’s a barrage of ants in front of you, and that it’s coming forth to consume you. Now you might, you know, run away, or attempt to kill the illusion. Swat it away, employ bug sprays, perhaps hold a lighter against it. But the other person might just let the ants engulf him, because… well, that’s how he reacts to it. He might let it crawl up his nostrils, pinch through his pores and suffocate him in a throat full of insects.

It’s such a complex manifestation but it all boils down to this: schizophrenia convinces the brain, and schizophrenia is how the person reacts to that conviction. It is not a demon disease, it is not a demon transformer, it does not even “awaken” some pre-existing evil inside of you. Nothing about it is satanic, or evil, or remotely supernatural. It might convince you that your fellow family are, say, angelic entities, but schizophrenia is not a demon manifesting itself in the brain.

Experiencing it, however, is like being dragged through Hell and back. With demons beside you.

* * *

A sudden outburst of knocks woke Chanyeol from his slumber.

Chanyeol’s eyes swivelled around and looked at the clock on the wall… 3 in the afternoon, Christ. He rubbed his eyes, waiting to see whether the knock would persist—and it did, again, just as loud. Chanyeol’s hazy mind thought of Byun Baekhyun… no, no, maybe that oddball Jongdae. Then again… both never knocked. And they could’ve let themselves in as they pleased. You know, like assholes. Chanyeol grunted out of the sofa, hoping that it wasn’t some salesman that had spawned to ruin the extra possible 15 minutes of his nap.

Chanyeol opened the door without looking who it was behind the curtains of the window. He made out this figure… ugh, maybe… nearly his height… funny hair…

“Holy shit,” Chanyeol exclaimed suddenly, rubbing his eyes, before looking again, “Holy shit… oh my god.”

“Hey man,” Luhan smiled waveringly, “It’s been a while.”

Chanyeol laughed, blooming a smile that hasn’t displayed itself in a while. Both pulled each other into a tight embrace, chuckling into each other’s ear, before they pulled apart and Chanyeol patted the other man’s shoulder.

This man, Luhan, was Chanyeol’s friend in high school, with the same passion for music. Chanyeol had shut himself off during the… recent years, and have not thought much of his friends from school from the onset of his hospitalisation, but this was such a nice surprise.

“Whoah… Luhan, wow, yeah!” Chanyeol said, still caught off his line. Luhan offers him a smile—a dimpled one, in which his cheeks filled out a bit from his tight jawline, which Chanyeol returned. Something rustled in Luhan’s hands, which turned out to be some flowers.

“Oh, I—um…”

An awkward stance. Luhan seems to rock on his feet, smiling nervously.

“It’s… it’s for you. For. You know. Hospital. Stuff,” he said, clearing his throat, “Unless you don’t want it then I can just—“

“No. No, I—“

A jumble of words, which they laughed off.

“I’ll… I’ll take it. Yeah. Thanks. Thanks, Lu,” he said, before motioning inside, “Um…yeah. Yeah! Come in. Oh, it’s really good to see you man.”

Chanyeol let Luhan in, and shut the door behind him. Chanyeol quickly turned off the television, suddenly bothered by its static irk filling the room. Luhan sat somewhat off-seat, edging too far left off the couch.

“Um…” Chanyeol scratched his neck, “Water… soda, or…”

“N-No, it’s okay,” Luhan smiled. He looked at the floor for a while, looking at Chanyeol again, before he chuckled and scratched his hair.

“Sorry, I… it’s been… it’s been so long. Like,” Luhan swallowed, “Like… a year.”

He scratched his nose, then gestured in the air… as if he was searching for the right words. There was this sort of… uncertainty in Luhan’s eyes.

“You’ve… changed, a lot,” Luhan said, “Appearance-wise.”

“Oh… um…” Chanyeol said, looking down at himself, then grimaced awkwardly. He knew it already—and it was obviously normal for people to comment on someone’s visual changes, but Luhan really did not have to remind him. Chanyeol had gotten skinnier, sure, but it was in such a harrowing, drastic way. The circles under his eyes remained even after a full day of sleep. Everything tightened around his flesh. Luhan notices Chanyeol’s silence and tactfully changes the subject.

“So… everything… you know,” Luhan gestured again, “Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, uh… things are… slowly getting sorted out,” Chanyeol said, “I’m um… on medication… and therapy. Weekly.”

The awkwardness… had never been there when they were friends, but Chanyeol supposed that it was just because Luhan hadn’t met him in a while. It’s been… well, what now… a year… and a half, maybe? But the awkwardness seemed so hard to dispel, and it looked like Luhan was about to fall off the edge of his seat.

“So um…” Luhan looked around, “You live with your sister now, I guess?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah,” Chanyeol nodded, and it felt as if he was in a whiplash, “She takes care of me.”

“Cool.”

Luhan put his hands on his lap, slapping both of his knees. The sound resonated through the room, but any sound was relief from the very, very dry conversation.

Chanyeol frowned. Has it… really been so long, that Luhan just felt like he was with a stranger? Chanyeol could tell… sitting so far off the edge, Luhan’s legs bouncing up and down and constantly rubbing his lap, his eyes darting around… god, it was like seeing himself without medication. Chanyeol felt it too. The conversational pauses, the awkward stance… it was a telltale of someone being uncomfortable.

**“HE HATES YOU.”**

Chanyeol jumped out of his seat, eyes widening. 

Someone had just... boomed into his ear, screaming so hard that his tinnitus set off. Chanyeol tried to hold it together, face scrunching up to conceal the fact that he was shocked. The white noise flooded his headspace, pouring so intensely into his ears that he could barely hear Luhan speak. Concentrating with this sort of noise in mind (literally) was not something he was used to doing.

“Did you hear that?” Chanyeol said to Luhan, who simply just... frowned at him.

“Hear what?”

**“HE THINKS YOU’RE A FREAK.”**

It came again, louder this time, striking his conscience. Chanyeol paled and lowered his face so that his bangs hid his visage from Luhan. No, no no no. It can’t be. That voice... who... who said it? Chanyeol swiveled around, trying not to look like he was freaking out. No, he must keep it together. He has to act normal. He can’t lose contact with another person. This is ridiculous.

“Chanyeol?” Luhan frowned, touching his shoulder, “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah. Um, I... the doc said I had tinnitus, so. Must be hearing sounds,” Chanyeol smiled, not wanting Luhan to know the real cause of it. Chanyeol didn’t know how… “safe” Luhan was, in terms of knowing his disorders. Chanyeol was already breaking out in cold sweat. 

He was impressed that he wasn’t panicking already. That voice, it was... unidentifiable, but so loud and booming. It felt as if it... as if it was coming from the inside of his head, and crawling into his eardrums. Chanyeol knew fully well that this was dangerous. The voice is not a thought. It wasn’t his head’s voice. It was... god, he could hear it, loud and clear, but inside his head. And Chanyeol, truth be told, was terrified.

“Okay,” Luhan nodded, “Must be tough.”

“For sure.”

Luhan slowly got up, looking around awkwardly. He patted Chanyeol’s shoulder and smiled.

“It’s nice to see you get back up on your feet, man,” he said, “I... gotta catch the bus now, but... we gotta hang sometimes, yeah? Proper catch-up.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure, for sure,” Chanyeol smiled. Both made their way out to the door, Chanyeol opening it for Luhan to pass through. The latter offered Chanyeol a smile, though it could’ve easily been interpreted as a grimace considering how droopy it was. Luhan shook Chanyeol’s hand and bumped his shoulder, giving him one last smile before he went out the porch.

Chanyeol saw Luhan walk off into the distance.

Chanyeol couldn’t shake off the horrible feeling on his shoulders. That voice... it wasn’t good. He tried talking to it now, in his head, but it wouldn’t come again. But it perfectly illustrated Chanyeol’s fear. He was so terrified of appearing... well, “insane” is an outdated term, but it fitted the context now, to Luhan. And it instilled a fear so deep within Chanyeol that he was now rocking back and forth on the porch, biting his nails. Maybe Luhan did think he was a freak. Maybe. Oh, he saw it alright. Those eyes... he saw it in everyone else’s eyes, too. They’re scared of him, they think he’s some sort of beast, waiting to roar and crawl out of the depths of hell. It was really taking a toll on Chanyeol that he started groaning as he rocked back and forth, knees tucked into his arms, the thoughts swirling in his head...

**“YOU’RE A FREAK, CHANYEOL, YOU’RE A FREAK!”**

Something thumped onto Chanyeol’s head and he flinched, getting out of his curled position. His jaw fell off. It was dark outside now, and Chanyeol had no idea how much time had passed. A green convertible shone on him, Jongdae sat atop of it. The car was so close to the porch that the bumper actually touched it. Jongdae had a long piece of grass in his mouth, and the twins seated at the back stared at Chanyeol as if he was some fascinating wax figure.

Chanyeol looked at the thing that had hit his head. Jongdae had threw a pebble on his head.

“You fucking stupid bitch—“ Chanyeol growled suddenly, and kicked Jongdae’s car. The latter seemed a little surprised and slid off the hood, holding Chanyeol’s shoulders, a frown marred deep into his tanned face.

“Whoah whoah, slow down buster. We’ve been here for like, half an hour, and now you decide to get pissed off?” Jongdae said, lighthearted but firm. Chanyeol put his foot off the car and balled his fists. 

He lost track of time. Again. He must’ve been so wound up in his episode that he hadn’t heard Jongdae and his cronies come with his stupid car.

“I’m...”

Chanyeol looked down, taking a deep breath. He paced around the porch, hand behind his head, scratching his nape. He rubbed his face, as if to clear his mind.

“Sorry,” he said, a little breathless, and Jongdae shook his head so cheerily that his curls fell about his face.

“Don’t worry flacko. S’all good,” Jongdae grinned so stupidly wide, and Chanyeol was more relieved than annoyed this time to see him. It provided him with distraction, at least.

“Listen. We’re going downtown. Clubbing,” Jongdae held Chanyeol’s shoulder, and dropped his voice into a whisper, “Well, if you count partying in a traphouse as clubbing. We’re about to score some deals. Thought it’d be fun to have you round as a guest. You in?”

“W—“

“Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” Jongdae hollered, and shoved Chanyeol inside the car before he could even answer. Before Chanyeol could protest about his possibly concerned sister for his missing presence as well as the certain keywords Jongdae used, the latter sped off into the night, and Chanyeol felt so glad that he was still in some respectable shirts and jeans because some skimpy pajamas would not have held out for the cool night air.

“Um—” Chanyeol hesitated, watching the car zoom further and further into the night… until the neighbourhood completely disappeared from sight. He stared at his lap, looking at the fluff that made its way out from the inside of the seats. He tried to stuff it back in, before he realised…

“Yura,” he said suddenly, and looked at Jongdae, “L-Let me go back. I can’t just leave the house without telling her I’m away.”

“You’re a big boy now, why would she care?” Jongdae snorted, resting his hand on the outside part of the door, “Listen. If she was even home, she would’ve already noticed you, no? I woke you up from that weird trance.”

Chanyeol wanted to protest, but Jongdae made sense. Chanyeol looked at the digital clock embedded in the dashboard… it was well past Yura’s usual hometime. Still, Yura might ask questions of where he has gone, and Chanyeol had already lied enough to her already.

They passed the city for a bit, and Chanyeol was reminded of how deprived he was of the outside world. The night lights, the fresh air… even the smell of pollution, the harsh honking of cars and the bustle of people. It reminded Chanyeol of what he had lost grip on, and finally got back again. It felt wonderful, and it felt fresh. He heard Jongdae snicker next to him.

“Look at the puppydog,” Jongdae said, and the twins perched at the back shared a giggle.

“Like a baby—”

“—Opening his eyes for the first time,” the two said one after the other. Chanyeol pointed his middle finger at them, but it couldn’t be truer. It really did feel like he was awaken from some sort of cocoon. Life outside of isolation doesn’t seem so bad after all.

Someone honked next to them, and Chanyeol jerked up as a car passed, nearly bumping into his head.

It was the other convertible—the red one. This time Junmyeon was driving, Kris at the back seat with Soo, who immediately chortled at the sight of Chanyeol.

Soo wasn’t driving… presumably, because they probably still had fear of the police catching them with a child driving the car. Junmyeon offers Chanyeol a warm smile, and because Junmyeon was still somewhat tolerable from the rest of the group, Chanyeol returns the smile.

“Hey Myeonnie, wanna see who can get a driving ticket first?” Jongdae winked, roaring his car. Junmyeon pulls up his lips in a half-smirk—some celebrity-like one—before he shook his head.

“Lil’ Soo already has too much bad influence,” he thrummed with gentle laughter, “Why, want a rematch on who has the bigger cock in town?”

“First of all, it’s because I’m a fucking grower, okay? Second, my engine was fucked up, so you obviously had the upper hand!”

Junmyeon just rolled his eyes and laughed, before he stepped on the gas pedal and zoomed off at red light. Jongdae shrieked and fumbled a little bit, as if he had forgotten what to do, before he followed suit and rammed his foot on the pedal. Jongdae accelerated so hard that Chanyeol was immediately thrown onto the seat, back pressed flat because of how fast Jongdae was going. The twins just watched Chanyeol grimace, trying to endure it, and Chanyeol growled as he heard the twins’ laughter at the back.

It was a bustling street, but Chanyeol underestimated how good of a driver Jongdae was. He swerved in spaces so tight that Chanyeol didn’t even know how it was possible to maneuver into them, sometimes even taking up space on sidewalks. Jongdae was pretty unobstructive when it comes to driving too. Although a lot of the pedestrians jumped, Jongdae had never purposefully went to hit, say, a cafe table left out on the sidewalk. 

It’s clear though, that Junmyeon had more experience on his back. He was out to a free road in no time, and Jongdae still lagged behind by a few hundred yards. Jongdae was careful however, weaving through in and out of the cars, and obviously without a series of angry drivers honking at him. Finally, however, they break off into a free road, and Jongdae stepped on the gas to gain the few yards he’s lost.

The surroundings change into an apartment complex, where there were few cars around. Jongdae quickly went on par with Junmyeon, and clearly it was now up to the car’s engines to work—because they were now at the same speed, just stepping on the gas pedal.

“Get ready to be disappointed, Myeonnie!” Jongdae hollered, in which Junmyeon simply responded with a laugh.

“What, already wet your pants, sore loser?” Junmyeon said. They bickered back and forth before Little Soo pulled on Junmyeon’s shoulder.

“Baekhyun,” Little Soo chortled excitedly, pointing forwards, and both Jongdae and Junmyeon emitted some inhuman scream and both stepped on their brakes so hard that the car jumped forwards. Chanyeol thunked the dashboard and the twins swerved onto the front seats, letting out a groan in unison. 

Baekhyun was, quite literally, in front of them. In fact just as Chanyeol got off the car, he saw that the car’s bumpers actually made contact with Baekhyun’s knees. 

Baekhyun didn’t say anything—like always—but he gave a stare so cold to both the drivers that Chanyeol immediately felt frozen up. Jongdae blew a raspberry and pulled into the yard of what seems to be their destination: an apartment block.

“Grr, I was so close to winning as well,” Jongdae muttered, but avoided Baekhyun’s line of sight. Jongdae might not have feared death by car crash, but he sure feared God condensed in a mere boy’s body. Junmyeon on the other hand, mumbled an apology and pulled up on the driveway. It seems that Junmyeon had the position to be the wisest and most rational of them all—but apparently, men can’t resist the occasional temptation.

The rest of the boys hopped out of the car, apparently sullen by Baekhyun’s silent scold as well. They opened their trunk, which revealed a single sports bag that Kris started to carry.

They made their way to the apartment entrance, Little Soo already bouncing up to the door, but Junmyeon got ahold of him and grabbed him back.

“No, Soo,” Junmyeon said, and the little boy immediately stomped his feet and crossed his arms, pouting.

“I am old enough!” he protested, stamping his feet, “I am nine years old!”

“Still a long way from eighteen, buddy,” Junmyeon ruffled his hair, and Soo looked like he had more to protest, but he stayed put and obeyed all the same, crossing his arms. Junmyeon looked at Chanyeol as well and tilted his head.

“You can stay as well,” Junmyeon said, “We’re just dealing some scores.”

Chanyeol honest to god didn’t know what that meant, but taking what Jongdae said into account some days ago in the warehouse… it was probably something to do with drugs. Oh, he’s got it now. They’re dealers. Makes sense why Soo had to hang back… still, it was good to know that they still had some sort of heart, and refused to get a nine-year-old into one of the most roughest businesses ever.

“I, umm…” Chanyeol scratched his nape. The rest of the boys were looking at him now, since they’re waiting for him to decide. Chanyeol rationalised. Well… assuming that he wasn’t being kidnapped, and that he wasn’t getting forced to consume drugs, he should be fine, right? He’s just seeing how it’s done. Still, even witnessing it can probably do some damage to his mental…

“Oh, just this once,” Jongdae smacked his shoulder, “Just see how it’s done, you know? Then you can hang back next time if you feel like it.”

Chanyeol nodded. Sounds… rational, though he still doesn’t know what to expect.

They made their way up, Soo and Junmyeon staying behind. The building looks clean, but it definitely did not give off a homely vibe. Jongdae snapped his fingers and pointed to the twins.

“You two, stay behind for the pigs. Jongin, take this floor, and Kai can go above. Kris can lounge around the door. Baekhyun and I go for the deal.”

Chanyeol looked at the twins, raising his eyebrows. So the “other Jongin” was called Kai. Still, it was difficult to tell which one was which, until they separated. Jongin stayed behind, while Kai stayed on the floor above. Still, there was no way to tell who was who, because both looked so identical.

The rest then made their way up another floor, which was met with a single door for the whole floor. Kris gruntled and stood in front of the door. Assuming “pigs” were the cops, Kris seemed a right choice to stand in front of the door. He was burly and thick with muscle, and his shaved head couldn’t communicate anything else other than the word “intimidating”. Kris handed the duffel bag to Jongdae, who nodded and knocked on the door. Six times, followed by a pause, then another six times, followed by another pause, then only once.

“What’re you doing it that for?” Chanyeol whispered—he didn’t know why, but he just felt like he had to whisper under these circumstances.

“So they know who we are, duh,” Jongdae rolled his eyes. Chanyeol huffed.

Someone came in. He was… well, gangly and thin to say the least, with some sort of reptilian look in his eyes. He leaned on the door, looking at Jongdae through the cracks, letting his jaw hang like some sort of toddler before he let them in. He stopped Chanyeol however, and narrowed his eyes.

“Who’sssss the new b-boy?” he murmured. He was certainly a strange character. He had this hiss and slight stutter, and his head was bowed so low that he actually had to squint his eyes upwards to see. Ice white hair adorned his frame, which did not help his skeleton-like appearance.

“Leave him alone, you crackhead. He’s with us,” Jongdae said, sounding a little irked. The man turned to Jongdae and started hissing.

“Huh-huh-how y-yuh know he’sssss not an undercover, pig?” the man said in his ghastly voice. He turned to Baekhyun to complain—but no matter how intimidating the man might’ve looked, he was scarcely anything under Baekhyun’s deathly stare. One look from the latter made the man whine and back down, like the omega of the pack. Jongdae just shoved him away into another room and began unpacking the bag.

“Taeyong’s a little bit silly sometimes. Don’t mind him,” Jongdae said, pushing curls out of his face, “If you decide to come the next few trips, get used to it. They have the right to be careful of new people. You understand why they’re scared, right?”

Chanyeol could easily see why. What they were doing is illegal. Still, he doesn’t really appreciate getting sniffed by some 5-year crackhead trying to shove his nose inside Chanyeol’s collar.

The apartment was completely stripped of furniture save for a few tables and chairs, as well as working lights. The sole function of it was just to sell and consume drugs, though Chanyeol thought that if anyone wanted to hide anything suspicious, they should have a fully furnished establishment to give off an appearance of someone innocently living here.

Chanyeol went to another room, where everyone seems to be gathered in. There were a few men and women, some sober-looking while others clearly look like they’ve had years of addiction behind their back. Still, Chanyeol was surprised. He thought every drug addict looked the same—hollowed out, skinny… like Taeyong, he supposed. Though one of them looked like a health practitioner, and that totally caught Chanyeol off-guard.

Jongdae set the bag down. They sat on the floor in a circle, and there’s a table at the centre where the legs have been cut off. Jongdae opened the bag, showing its contents—bags of white powder, which… literally could be any drug, in Chanyeol’s mind.

“Cash first,” Jongdae said, and everyone got out their wallets. Chanyeol knew that business around drugs were big money, but he didn’t expect it to be this big. What Jongdae had in hand right now, it was probably enough to take care of someone’s rent for two months in a pretty good apartment. Taeyong was the last to pull out his cash, but he seemed reluctant.

“Puh-puh-people been cutting their sssssshit lately,” he growled, “D-Don’t wanna pay f-for shit that was c-cut.”

“We never cut our shit, okay? You know it. Everyone in this room knows it,” Jongdae sighs, rolling his eyes, “That’s potentially dead people on our hands. We don’t want it.”

“Fuck you,” Taeyong spat, “Prove it. Hey, n-n-newbie, is this shit cut?”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Chanyeol said defensively, shrugging, “I’m… just a guest.”

“You c-cut you sssshit, you mix glass, you mix baking soda to get more puh-puh-product so yous can sell big,” Taeyong said, snorting through his nose, “Well? You cut you shit, newbie?”

Chanyeol winced. Doing drugs was bad enough, but mixing it with other things to get more volume on it seems to make it worse. It seems like this whole ordeal was getting into everyone’s nerves, however, so Chanyeol thought it was wise to give an answer as soon as possible.

“I don’t think so,” Chanyeol said with dropped shoulders, because, honestly, that was a lot of keyterms he had to learn for today. Taeyong looked at him with his reptile eyes.

“Prove it.”

“Prove what?” Chanyeol asked, before Taeyong lunged forwards, grabbed a bag, and shoved it onto Chanyeol’s face. This started a small riot. The people in the room started shouting at Taeyong, while Jongdae tried to pull Taeyong away from Chanyeol.

“Hey, hey, what the fuck? Stop pulling shit on him, he’s done nothing wrong,” Jongdae growled, and Taeyong shoved him backwards.

“I don’t like the newbie. He l-l-l-l-lookssss like a pig,” Taeyong hissed, “Come on, newbie, prove it! Prove it you don’t cut your shit!”

Then, out of nowhere, Taeyong just flew to the floor. 

Everybody in the room went silent. Baekhyun had his fist raised, which meant that he had pushed Taeyong into the floor. It didn’t even seem like a hard shove, but everyone went quiet. Even Taeyong looked like a puppy kicked back to its kennel, avoiding Baekhyun’s eyes, breathing through his hollowed-out nose.

Baekhyun took the bag that Taeyong took. He opened it, dumped it on to the table, and divided it in lines with a card. He rolled up one of the banknotes that Jongdae had gathered in his hands and—to Chanyeol’s shock—took one line up his nose. When he was done, he sniffled, shoved the note onto Jongdae’s hands again, and spat on Taeyong.

Point proven. Exactly what Taeyong wanted, but apparently Taeyong looked like as if someone had trodden all over him with dirt-stained shoes.

“We don’t cut our shit, asshole,” Jongdae put his hand out, “Say thank you to your dealer.”

Sorely, Taeyong handed in his cash, and Jongdae distributed everyone’s share. Everyone glared at Taeyong and they moved to the table to divide their things in line. Some just packed it in their bags and left the property. While this went on, Jongdae turned to Baekhyun and started whispering to him.

“What the fuck did you just do?” Jongdae hissed. Although what Baekhyun did was impressive, Jongdae didn’t seem too happy with the stunt. It was easy to see why. Baekhyun was the leader around these parts, and now that he had drugs in his system, their defence was compromised. Now they had to wait it out, and although Baekhyun did only a line, this short amount of time could get scary very quickly.

The room, after they had their lines, soon erupted in laughter and conversation afterwards. Chanyeol wasn’t familiar with drugs, but… he supposed that sociability was one of its effects. But it was… so scary, still. He’s seen his fair share of drug users around the hospital. It was like… seeing himself, essentially. Some people didn’t take too well to their psychosis-induced drug. That reminiscence made Chanyeol feel sick, and he began to break out in cold sweat.

“Um… Jongdae,” he said hoarsely, tugging at the man’s arm, “Jongdae.”

“Huh? Oh, what’s up?”

“Is there a bathroom here?” Chanyeol said, feeling his voice get raspy. Jongdae didn’t seem to notice his altering sense of state.

“Oh, yeah. Just that door, right to the entrance.”

“Thanks,” he said, struggling not to immediately run into the bathroom. He opened the door and shut himself in. Fuck, no locks. Chanyeol pulled at his hair and leaned onto the wall, groaning quietly.

This was a potential trigger. Chanyeol could easily start hallucinating now and lose himself in it. Considering how aggressive Taeyong was, if he walked out having the wrong kind of delusions right now, he’ll be in big trouble. Oh, why didn’t he stay back…? He leaned onto the sick and breathed hard through his nose, almost breathless, before he saw the doorknob turn and Baekhyun lolled his head in.

“Shit, um—” Chanyeol blinked, unsure of what to do, “Sorry, you wanna use the… I’ll just get out.”

Chanyeol made his way to the door, but Baekhyun just shut it behind him and pinned Chanyeol to the wall, pushing against his chest. There was no telling how strong Baekhyun was to be able to use that stuff, but he seemed so scary in this state. His pupils were blown, and he was breathing harshly through his mouth, grasping against Chanyeol’s chest. The fact that Baekhyun was staring into him was such a horrible experience, too.

Then, before Chanyeol could do anything, Baekhyun latched his mouth onto his neck. Hard. Chanyeol gasped, shocked, unable to react. Baekhyun was kissing the juncture of his neck, almost as if he was thirsty for blood. Baekhyun nuzzled himself onto Chanyeol’s neck, playing with the latter’s skin between his lips, and… oh god, Chanyeol could not help but let out a quiet groan. It felt good.

Chanyeol was incapacitated. Baekhyun pushed him plush against the wall, kissing up to his neck, leaving bruises on him. Chanyeol let’s him do it, unsure whether this was Baekhyun’s will or Baekhyun’s-will-under-drugs. Seeing that Chanyeol was receptive, Baekhyun snakes a hand under his shirt and touches his stomach.

And touched his scar. Accidentally.

Suddenly, it all flooded Chanyeol. The memories, his father, the touches he didn’t want. Without thinking, Chanyeol shoved Baekhyun away, The latter wobbled on his feet and fell, hitting his head on the sink with a loud thunk. Baekhyun fell to the floor afterwards, curled up, and Chanyeol for sure thought he’d just killed this man until he realised that Baekhyun was still blinking, breathing harshly through his mouth.

“Oh god, oh fuck, I—” Chanyeol choked up, trying to muster an apology, but he suddenly felt so claustrophobic is this small bathroom. White flashes blinded his eyes. The ants appeared, and they came crawling out of the sinkhole, waiting to grasp him again, take down his body, and take him to his father—or so what Chanyeol’s head said to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t do this, I can’t—” Chanyeol started hyperventilating. Yura, where was Yura? He looked around in panic, as if to expect to see her there. Chanyeol couldn’t see how Baekhyun was reacting to his antics. Chanyeol finally broke down in sobs and struggled out of the room, falling onto the carpeted floor. Jongdae spotted him from the other room and immediately noticed that something awful was happening.

“Holy shit. Chanyeol, are you okay?” Jongdae said, running up to him, but Chanyeol screamed at him. Jongdae jerked back, raising his hands up.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!” Chanyeol sobbed. The rest of the folks peeped their head in, trying to see what was going on. 

Chanyeol couldn’t do this anymore. Abruptly getting up, he reached for the door and opened it, running down the stairs.

“Chanyeol!” Jongdae shouted after him. Jongin and Kai must’ve heard the commotion upstairs, so they tried to stand in front of Chanyeol, but both twins were pushed away in succession as Chanyeol clambered down, sobbing, convinced that his father was now running after him.

Chanyeol got out into the cool night air, and was spotted by Little Soo and Junmyeon. Chanyeol whisked past them, running and screaming, tears running down his face. Kai and Jongin had just reached the landing, receiving confused looks from Junmyeon and Soo, and the twins pointed at Chanyeol’s figure who was running off at light speed.

“Go—”

“—stop—”

“—him!”

Junmyeon blinked, but Soo reacted faster. He climbed up on one of the convertibles, already at the driver’s seat, and Junmyeon simply followed on to the next seat. Soo reversed the car and sped off to catch up with Chanyeol, who had run a considerable amount of distance.

Chanyeol was sobbing still, trying to urge his legs to run faster. He’s coming—his father— he knew it. His father was just behind him, a step away from grabbing him by the neck and throttling him onto the floor. Chanyeol didn’t even know where he was running. Eventually his eyes blurred and he missed a step, falling onto the cold asphalt, crying as his hands grazed the ground.

Soo caught up with him, and Junmyeon climbed out immediately, running to Chanyeol’s side. Junmyeon firmly held Chanyeol’s sobbing figure, who was trying to wiggle away from Junmyeon’s hold—to no avail.

“Hey, hey now. What’s up? Come on, Chanyeol. Did something happen?” Junmyeon said, shaking him gently, but Chanyeol just cried and cried profusely, convinced that there was a shadow nearby, watching them.

“F-F-Father—” he sobbed, hiccuping, “H-H-H-He’s gonna—h-he’s g-g-g-onna c-come h-h-h-here, he’s—he’s—”

“Take deep breaths now, ‘Yeol. In and out, come on,” Junmyeon urged him, but this only made Chanyeol cry harder. 

“H-He-He’s g-gonna c-come, h-h-he’s gonna—” Chanyeol gulped, choking on his sobs, barely audible between his cries, “H-He’s g-g-g-gonna touch me, he’s g-gonna, he’s gonna start d-d-d-doing—he’s—he’s—”

Junmyeon had no clue what he was talking about, and nobody seemed to be chasing them. But the fear in Chanyeol’s eyes—it was real. It was real, tangible fear and Junmyeon didn’t know what else to do but embrace him, hugging him tightly.

“No. No, you’re safe with us, ‘Yeol. Nobody’s coming to get you. You’re safe with us. It’s okay,” Junmyeon said, repeating it over and over again, until Chanyeol stopped struggling and went to cry on his shoulders, weeping. Junmyeon looked at Soo, frowning, who returned the same frown. Neither knew what was going on, but at least Chanyeol was once more within their safe grasp now.

* * *

Junmyeon drove Chanyeol back. It took an hour to calm Chanyeol down, and a lot of things happened too. Jongdae and Baekhyun arrived in the scene. For sure Baekhyun knew the answers to all of it, but he refused to speak, and there was a half an hour where Jongdae just went off on him, shouting at him for not making anything better. After everyone calmed down, they agreed that enough was enough and Junmyeon agreed to drive Chanyeol back. The rest of the situation and where it stands, however, is unclear.

There were two police officers at the porch when Chanyeol arrived home, Yura talking to them both. It seemed that Yura had resorted to calling the police after failing to find him. As Chanyeol hobbled out of the car, Yura immediately went up to embrace him, letting out a gasp. Problem resolved, the officers left, and Yura held Chanyeol’s shoulder in disbelief.

“Holy fuck. Holy fuck, I was so worried about you,” Yura said, her voice shaking. She ushered him to the house, seemingly ignoring Junmyeon’s presence. Yura lets Chanyeol inside, though didn’t close the door without glaring at Junmyeon.

“One more time, asshole,” Yura hissed, “Try it one more time. I’ll kill you all.”

Junmyeon just looked at her silently. As Yura closed the door, the car sounded, speeding off into the distance.

Chanyeol was still shaken up, hiccuping with sobs. Yura asked him where he had been, but he just rocked back and forth, half-whining to himself.

“Right. Questions tomorrow, rest now,” she said, her lips pressed thinly. She helped him upstairs. Chanyeol completely froze up now, refusing to move his limbs, so Yura struggled to put him on the bed. Yura slid off his clothes and tucks him in.

“Meds?” she offered, but Chanyeol had become catatonic now, freezing on the spot. Yura grimaced and stroked his hair, leaving the room with the lights on, closing the door.

She sunk into the wall, sitting down, rubbing her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After like, months of radio silence, I'm back lol T__T hai guys
> 
> Be back soon, hopefully :)


	8. Body

_"Now move it left right left  
_ _Gone take it back a couple steps  
_ _Hands on your hips all night  
_ _Hold my hand til it feels right."_

_Fangs, Matt Champion_

* * *

Time is an odd concept. Is it a perceivement of things passing by, or does it pass by you? Chanyeol often thought of it, in that nuthouse bed, staring at the white ceiling until it swirled in his vision. Often he was so engrossed in being transfixed in staring at something—or his hallucinations—that hours passed by without notice. Sometimes days even, if nobody interrupted him.

Maybe it was a coping mechanism he developed. When his f— _he_ —did _that_ —to him, Chanyeol tried to repress feeling anything as best as he could. Sometimes it would begin and the next second it would end, as if a memory had been deleted after it was experienced. It was great that he could forget, but even when the abuse stopped happening, he still did it. In fact, anything that resulted in stress made him have these… blackouts, if he could call it that. Thinking too much of something made him have these memory blackouts. A price to pay to repress a memory he never wanted to experience, he supposed.

He hasn’t left his room for… he doesn’t know. All he knew was that he got up occasionally to go to the bathroom. The saddest thing was probably watching Yura go into his room to leave a tray of food—then to come back some hours later with another meal, only to find out that he hasn’t eaten. Rinse and repeat, and imagine that for several days. Chanyeol felt numb. He hasn’t showered. The filth felt as if it slowly built layers atop of his skin, and if he raked his nails through his arm…

Something interrupted the buzz.

A knock—a smart rap on the door; once, then quickly thrice, then another two in succession after a small pause. Not Yura’s knocks. Chanyeol buried himself further into the pillow.

_“Chanyeol? It’s me. May I come in?”_

It took a while for Chanyeol to process the voice, trying to match it onto a face in his hazy mindspace.

Kim Minseok.

Chanyeol lets out a groan, grabbing his hair and pulling it. Yura must’ve called him to visit him here. Yura’s voice floated hazily outside and, after an exchange of murmurs, the door creaked open and Kim Minseok’s aura flooded the room. The floor creaks, and Kim Minseok seemed to cringe at the noise. He sits, carefully, at the edge of Chanyeol’s bed.

“Chanyeol,” Kim Minseok says, somehow softly, “Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

There is a sound of a sigh, and Kim Minseok pushing up his glasses. At least Chanyeol gotten a word out. Apparently not even Yura could coax a word out of him.

“Yura told me you’ve been… having some troubles,” Kim Minseok, and there was a click of a pen, “That you went on… nightly walks to ease your symptoms.”

Chanyeol didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to.

“The last time you went out, you were gone for long without warning. You had a catatonic episode.”

“I was just shaken up,” Chanyeol protested, muffled by his pillow.

“Shaken up by what?”

“Stuff.”

“And what is that exactly?”

“You know.”

“I need more words, Chanyeol.”

“You don’t.”

Another sigh—a longer one this time—escaped Kim Minseok’s lips once more. Chanyeol was surprised that Kim Minseok still stayed with him throughout the process of his recovery. Chanyeol never really wanted to co-operate him. They all never understood. They get paid anyway—which is what makes it worse. They get paid to empathize and to help him and that’s not human at all.

“You have to help me, Chanyeol, so I can help you in turn. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t tell you anything because there’s nothing wrong.”

“Chanyeol…”

There is a pause. Chanyeol doesn’t speak.

“Chanyeol,” Kim Minseok spoke, “You know… if you still feel unstable, I can always get you a referral—“

“I don’t want to go to no stupid fucking nuthouse again,” Chanyeol said, gripping his hair so tightly that he felt the strands come off onto his fingers, “Fuck you.”

Kim Minseok quietens. Chanyeol groans. The silent treatment. Besides his father, the one person Chanyeol could never quite defeat was Kim Minseok. His disappointment caused Chanyeol heartache. Sometimes Chanyeol joked that if he was hallucinating, he wouldn’t be able to disprove Kim Minseok’s presence because the man was so down-to-earth.

There was a soft exhale of breath. Kim Minseok nudges his foot.

“Alright,” he said, sensing that he couldn’t force any more words from Chanyeol, “But if you have any troubles—you can call me, alright? Anything. You know my number. You can call me off-hours, too.”

Chanyeol stayed silent.

“Make sure you keep up with your prescription—remember, it takes a while for Clozaril to take effect.”

Chanyeol gave him no words.

“And please, Chanyeol. Take care of yourself. Regular meals. Exercise. Regular sleep hours. Take care.”

Another sigh followed, before Kim Minseok got up to leave. He exchanged a few words with Yura before he leaves with a curt goodbye, and the door is shut downstairs.

Shortly afterwards, Yura came in, her footsteps lighter than the psychiatrist’s. She took a seat closer to him, resting her hand on Chanyeol’s back.

“Wanna talk?”

Chanyeol shook his head.

Yura lets out an exhale through her nose.

“Please. At least tell me what happened—when you came home.”

No response.

“Chanyeol, I’m really worried about you. I don’t want to cage you in the house, but I get worried whenever you go outside. And you don’t _tell_ me what happens when you go outside. I don’t want to safeguard you all the time, but I’m scared if something you experience something outside when I’m not there—“

“I’m not a freak, Yura! I don’t need you to baby me!” Chanyeol shouts into the pillow. Yura, probably shocked, took her hand off of his back in a flinch. Chanyeol immediately regretted it.

Silence followed.

“I’m sorry. You take good care of me. I didn’t mean it,” Chanyeol murmured. Yura scoffed.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry. I just… need my own time.”

There was a sound of resolve. Yura rubbed his back, half-reassuring and half-concerned.

“Please, Chanyeol. Build the trust. I let you go out on your own—but you need to start telling me how you’re feeling. I need to know.”

She starts leaving, and Chanyeol stays unmoved. She turns around again as she began to close the door.

“And one more thing—“ Yura added, “Stay away from those boys.”

Chanyeol looked to the side and peeped one eye at her, then narrowed it quickly, ultimately giving himself away that he has in fact _indeed_ seen “those boys”. This did not go unnoticed and Yura gives him a pointed look.

“That got your attention, didn’t it?” she sighed, “Stay away from them, Chanyeol. I don’t want you to mix with them. They’re bad news. Do you understand?”

Chanyeol looked at her curiously.

“Why?” he said, and held back what was meant to come out as _“Is it because they deal drugs?”_

Yura simply shook her head. She murmured something about getting ready for work, before she closes the door.

* * *

The late afternoon scrawled by quickly, and finally, after days of being cooped within four walls, Chanyeol dared himself to go outside the confines of his room. He hit the shower first, with the intention to scrub the dirt from his skin.

He watered his soap and rubbed it as hard as he could on his skin, watching how the bumps on his arm lathered the soap constantly. For some reason, and for the first time in a long while, without clue as to what he was about to face, he looked down at his stomach and suddenly decided to pinched his scar.

He blinked.

He pulled it, stretching the skin, before letting it snap back to his flesh. He did this several times in succession. He wasn’t sure why—he had religiously avoided touching, or even _looking_ at his scar. Anything that touched his scar was guaranteed to provoke a strong reaction. When Byun Baekhyun had briefly brushed his scar, Chanyeol had nearly caused his death.

**“TOUCH IT.”**

Chanyeol whipped his head around at the sudden voice—deep and distorted with noise. Nobody was there. Conclusively he could only deduct it was from inside his head.

**“TOUCH IT. THE SCAR.”**

“I am,” Chanyeol said, feeling foolish that he responded to the voice, but he felt compelled to. He pulled the scar again and again.

**“DO IT AGAIN.”**

Chanyeol wasn’t sure why—he did it anyway. He couldn’t stop either. It was like an impulse that controlled the tips of his fingers, and he did it again, and again, and again.

He only stopped when he realised the water went cold, and all the suds have all but drained onto the plughole. Suddenly shivering, Chanyeol immediately stepped out, huddling himself into a towel before shuffling into his room to don some clothes.

Now dressed in sweatpants and a fresh shirt, he went downstairs to wolf anything that was stored in the cupboard. Having not eaten for many days did something to a man—all he knew was that very quickly, he was helping himself to a third serving of microwave food, and he had to step his foot on the bin to compress the packaging into the container. The mindless eating was accompanied by white noise from the television.

When he dropped out of school to… cope with certain things… he had a cycle of cooping himself in the room. His father had weekly trips for his work, and whenever that happened, he would then come downstairs to replenish himself for nutrients, a spot of white noise, then back upstairs whenever his father came back. Some months after it started though, Chanyeol stopped coming downstairs, and locked himself in his room for a long time…

 _Clunk._ Chanyeol looks down. He’s dropped his spoon.

He murmurs, bending down from the sofa to pick it up, before squinting. Ants—wherever they came from—had taken interest in the bit of food that was stuck to his spoon.

Kim Minseok told him that whenever possible, if Chanyeol knew he was hallucinating, he shouldn’t indulge or entertain it—but Chanyeol was fascinated anyway. The ants had begun to cut the food into small pieces, parading in single file to take the workload one by one and whisking away to the front door.

Chanyeol crouched down at the floor, following the ants’ path, watching how they trickled across the floor as they carried the food. No longer he thought whether it was real or not—he simply followed it, watching them scuttle underneath the small gap of the front door. He opens it, intending to see where they were going before a Junmyeon seemingly materialised out of thin air in front of him, and Chanyeol lets out a horrified shriek.

“Fucking Christ!” Chanyeol rasped after his initial scream, scrambling to get up from the floor. Junmyeon pressed his lips together in a thin sheepish smile, pocketing his hands on slacks that pleasantly fitted his legs.

“Sorry. Were you in the shower?”

“No, but—“ Chanyeol got up, “—I was surprised.”

“No? I knocked for a good ten minutes.”

Chanyeol looked at him, and Junmyeon’s face _did_ look like he had knocked for ten minutes. Chanyeol looked at the floor, noticing that the line of ants have vanished. He rubbed his eyes. So it wasn’t real, and somehow, he had blacked out from perceiving time correctly.

“My bad,” Chanyeol shrugged, “At least you knocked. The other two just threw stones at my window.”

He hoped that Junmyeon wouldn’t notice the loud TV static he had going on in his living room. Junmyeon raised his shoulders up in a shrug.

“I just wanted to drop by, see if you’re okay,” he said, and Chanyeol felt soothed by his cool voice, “Last time we saw each other, you got pretty shaken up by… something. I’m guessing it was something with the deal. It was definitely a bad idea for us to let you go there. You don’t have to tell me what it was—just wanna know if you’re alright.”

Chanyeol’s jaw hung slack, unsure of what to say. Out of all the words he could muster, he strung a sentence that came out like this:

“Why do you care?” he said, not meaning to sound blasé, but he had no other words. Junmyeon gave him a watery smile.

“Baekhyun told me I had to care.”

“You talk to him?”

Junmyeon gives him another smile. Chanyeol tutted. Another dead end.

“I’m guessing your sister wasn’t too happy about seeing us last time,” Junmyeon scratched his head, “That being said, we’re extending you to another invitation of hanging out with the family. They’ve missed you. Would you like to come?”

Chanyeol crossed his arms—not in defense, but in thought. Why does Byun Baekhyun care about him so much? And by the looks of it, Chanyeol now has a whole posse trying to… become his friends? Protect him? Chanyeol was deeply interested in their dynamics, and despite their antics Chanyeol would very much like to join them—but Yura’s words rang through his head and he groaned, realising that he’d have to disappoint his sister _again_ for the nth time within the month.

“Maybe,” Chanyeol said and, after a brief back-and-forth inside his head, he made his decision.

“Let me just change into something more decent. I’ll have to call my sister first.”

* * *

The note Chanyeol left was something like _“Went to town to meet with some friends, won’t be back til late or whatever I don’t know, don’t call the police this time I’m taking good care of myself”._ He decided it was enough, and hopping onto Junmyeon’s car, he left having donned jeans and an overshirt.

Junmyeon was pleasant to talk to. Like said before—Chanyeol refused to believe he was running a drug cartel. He looked too handsome and too wise. His cheeks crinkled whenever he smiled, and somehow Chanyeol felt at ease with his presence—unlike Jongdae, who used phrases at wrong contexts, or the twins, or Kris (who Chanyeol never even talked to), or Soo (probably because he was too young) or Byun Baekhyun (whom actively avoids talking to him).

The drive out of the neighbourhood was swift and they pulled into what looked like a small hotel. Junmyeon handed the keys to the valet and they made way towards the entrance, opening its doors.

“In a place like this?” Chanyeol whispered, referring to the fact that Junmyeon had probably taken them out to another dealing. Junmyeon smiled and shook his head.

“No, not here,” he said, and made his way to the reception. Instead of talking to the receptionist however, he simply passed by the table, nodded at said receptionist, and went to the door behind the table. Chanyeol awkwardly followed. 

“Don’t worry. I’m taking you to a place somewhere safer—safer than last time, anyway,” Junmyeon humoured, and Chanyeol followed him through the door. It revealed a short hallway, in which an elevator stood at the end of it. It loudly hummed as it took both men downwards. A few seconds after descending, loud music started to thrum; the volume increased slowly at first, then faster.

“How well do you react to women’s breasts?” Junmyeon shouted above the music. Chanyeol was caught off-guard by the question.

“What?!”

“Just look down, then!” Junmyeon shouts again and, as the elevator dinged open, Chanyeol saw approximately about four separate pairs of tits, and he wished he wasn’t alive at that very moment.

The establishment of the place was clearly illegal, since Junmyeon had to take a damn elevator hidden behind the receptionist's desk to access it, but it had many suitors—probably very sex-focused. Pink lights lit the floor and the women’s bodies that danced on their respective poles, surrounded by mostly men that generously showered them with bills. Chanyeol, feeling embarrassed, had to jostle through the crowd and follow Junmyeon with his eyes closed.

Luckily for Chanyeol, Hell was only a brief experience, and he was led to a room with lighting that was _not_ going to give him a seizure. The room was small, and perhaps able occupy a maximum of ten people. A table sits at the centre and the walls were lined with leather seats. Chanyeol quickly identified men playing a card game—gambling by the looks of it. 

The twins were seated together, sharing a chorus of a giggle as they watched Jongdae, Baekhyun and Soo play cards. A large pile of money was situated at the centre. Jongdae slowly puts a card down, followed by Baekhyun. Soo seemed to look at his cards, his round cheeks puffed in concentration, before he sets one down and everyone on the table (except for Baekhyun) lets out a loud groan as Soo cheered and grabbed the pile of bills with his starfish hands.

“Beginner’s luck!” Jongdae spluttered over his loss, downing what seems to be a glass of whiskey, blowing a raspberry at Soo, “Yeah, that’s right, rub it in my face, you stinky trash raccoon. Go drink your apple juice. See if I care!”

“ _Bwehhh!_ You’re angry cuz’ you lost,” the little boy blew a much harder raspberry, sticking an L in front of his aviator glasses, taunting Jongdae of his loss. The latter crossed his arms and huffed. He didn’t stop sulking as Junmyeon and Chanyeol approached him.

“Hard loss?” Junmyeon chuckled. Jongda seethes at him.

“Baekhyun helped him! Not fair! And Baekhyun purposefully fucked up my cards so he’d win!” he groans like a child, and Junmyeon snorted.

“We _did_ suggest Monopoly money—you were the one who insisted to use real cash. Your fault.”

“You’re supposed to _defend_ me!” Jongdae cries, and this childish outburst seems to make the twins giggle with delight. Junmyeon shook his head and turned towards Chanyeol.

“You want anything to drink?” Junmyeon said, “On the house.”

“I try not to drink,” Chanyeol pocketed his hands awkwardly, “I take meds.”

“I’ll get you a soda then,” Junmyeon winked, and went through another door that lead elsewhere. Chanyeol took a seat between the sulking Jongdae and the giggling twins, who seems to chortle harder every time Jongdae sniffled.

“Hi,” Jongdae said, apparently still sulking but definitely willing to interact with Chanyeol, “Life sucks.”

“So I’ve heard,” Chanyeol popped his mouth and nodded, but humorously could not conjure any sympathy for this man. Jongdae scratched the side of his head.

“Oh well. The grass is always greener on the other side,” Jongdae said, and Chanyeol physically cringed.

“That’s not how you use that phrase.”

Jongdae yapped about how words mean whatever meaning one gives to them, but Chanyeol’s eyes slowly moved towards Baekhyun’s. The dimly-lit room only made his eye fiercer, if anything. So much definition in such lifeless eyes. His twelve silver piercings glared at Chanyeol, blinding despite the dimly-lit room, before the boy moved his head and got up, stalking off from the table to go to another door—different from the one Junmyeon went into, and one that did not lead to the club scene.

At this point, Jongdae had broadened his audience to the twins, so it was no longer rude for him to leave the conversation. Chanyeol follows Baekhyun quietly, as if stalking him, slinking away from the scene. Beyond the door seems to be a much larger room with a desk at the centre, more brightly-lit, and many shelves. It seems to be an office of some sort—probably the administrative part of the club.

Baekhyun had noticed Chanyeol coming in, but he didn’t seem to mind, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. In fact, it seemed as if Baekhyun had _expected_ Chanyeol to follow him. Chanyeol stood a few paces in front of him. So, this was the man who invited him to see each other in flesh once more.

Chanyeol couldn’t stand the silence. He spoke first—he always spoke first, with Baekhyun.

“So not only a drug cartel, but also a strip club,” Chanyeol tutted. Baekhyun stared pointedly at him, as if Chanyeol accused him of something. Maybe it’s the wrong statement. The thing is, Baekhyun neither shook his head nor nodded, so it was Chanyeol who had to do all the logistics.

“Fine. Only a drug cartel. You’re only here to run a trade, and since I’m not seeing Kris, he’s the one doing the dealing here right now,” Chanyeol said, and Baekhyun’s eyes seemed to relax. Right answer, probably.

After that, Chanyeol suffocated in silence as Baekhyun stared at him. Chanyeol already ran out of things to talk about. _Speak to me, for fuck’s sake,_ Chanyeol wanted to say, but even that would elicit no response. Fuck.

Chanyeol reminisces the last time he saw Baekhyun, and felt his own shoulders droop. The last time they interacted, Chanyeol had pushed him onto the sink, and the man had hit the back of his head on the porcelain. The thud that sounded could only mean that it must’ve hurt like a motherfucker. Yet, Baekhyun doesn’t seem to hold a grudge for this—not that Chanyeol could know for sure, anyway.

“Listen—about last time,” Chanyeol began, biting his bottom lip, “Sorry I freaked out, okay? I didn’t—“ he paused, unsure whether he was _really_ willing to unravel about years’ worth of childhood trauma to someone he barely knew, so he decidedly tried to make up a lie, “I just never had a guy advance onto me like that. And you were high, so I…”

Chanyeol shuffled his foot awkwardly, clearing his throat, but no more words came to mind. He looked at Baekhyun’s eyes, hoping that the latter bought it—but they neither denied nor confirmed whether Baekhyun believed him or not. Chanyeol crossed his arms. He felt himself breaking out in cold sweat. Did Baekhyun see his whole breakdown?

“I didn’t mind it,” Chanyeol said—which he blurted out quickly—and covered his mouth in sudden regret. _Now_ Baekhyun’s eyes seemed to sparkle in interest, and Chanyeol felt his face flush. _Why did I say that? Why the fuck did I say that?_ Chanyeol moved from only covering his mouth to covering the whole entirety of his face, knowing that he was now too deep in the lie to back out. What made it worse was that he kept going, and oh, every word felt so horrible to say.

It wasn’t like he freaked out _because_ Baekhyun came onto him. He freaked out because Baekhyun _touched_ his scar, and it triggered the flashbacks. That’s reasonable, right? Chanyeol remembered the warm, flushed feeling as he felt Baekhyun latch onto his neck—before Baekhyun touched his scar and fucked it up, anyway.

“I’m not a coward,” Chanyeol huffed, flexing his shoulders backwards as if to live up to his words—he wasn’t, really, and he knew because Baekhyun had some sort of mocking glint in his eyes. Chanyeol grits his teeth, “I’ll prove it to you.”

Baekhyun stood with his arms crossed, waiting for Chanyeol to act. This was the most frustrating thing about interacting with him—his silence. Baekhyun never bothered to initiate any sort of communication via body language either. It was as if Baekhyun was forever internally mocking him, or judging him, or both. It tempted Chanyeol to push his eyeballs back in.

Now Baekhyun was waiting for Chanyeol to prove his… openness to sexuality. Chanyeol gritted his teeth together. He trapped himself in a situation that’d be too awkward to pull out from. And Baekhyun was waiting.

Mustering all of his dignity (that was guaranteed to all be thrown away), he stepped a few paces forward. Fuck—even standing remotely close to Baekhyun felt so difficult. Baekhyun’s presence had this aura that was so… suffocating. It made Chanyeol heat up under his collar. And that wasn’t counting looking directly into his eyes, either. Staring onto the boy felt like glass shards being pushed into Chanyeol’s eyes, and it hurt. Despite Baekhyun being a good head-or-so shorter than him, Chanyeol was the one who felt small.

Chanyeol clenched his teeth, and forced himself to lean in. He tried to make it as brief as possible. He tilted his head, holding his breath (which, he imagined, would result his face to look embarrassingly scrunched). He could feel his own hands tremble. What was he so afraid of? _Do it, do it Chanyeol._ Hands clenched into fists. He tilted his head. He could feel Baekhyun’s breaths on his face now. Closer, closer. Chanyeol let go of his breath. He can’t do this. He can’t. Baekhyun’s eyes looked like pools of grey now, and Chanyeol swam within it depths. Closer, closer. Chanyeol felt his body shook. _Fuck it._

Kissing Baekhyun felt like a slap to the face. It wasn’t the fact that it felt horrible—but Chanyeol never kissed someone on his own terms. It was a surprise. It was a realisation of— _hey, I could do this thing now, and I’m the one who decides whether I get to enjoy it or not._ It felt like power. It felt like release. It felt like Chanyeol was in control of his own life now.

Chanyeol kissed him again. He couldn’t comment as to how the actual physicality of the kiss felt, but the power and liberty it gave him was enough for him to do it again. And again. And again. Chanyeol never learnt how to kiss that meant passion, but he slowly learnt it now, trying to soften his own lips rather than pucker as hard as he could. It felt good, kissing someone. It freed him from his trauma—at least a little bit. And this time, he _wanted_ to kiss someone back. It felt good. It felt really, really good.

Baekhyun kissed him back, too. He reciprocated his passion, and Chanyeol, for the first time, felt what it was like to want someone. Chanyeol flushed at the thought. Him, being wanted, without feelings of malice? The reddening of his face felt like a fever now, and it felt hotter and hotter with each kiss. What was supposed to be a personal dare turned into willingness to submit. Baekhyun’s lips felt soft and inviting—whenever Chanyeol pulled away to take a breath, Baekhyun chased him back again with breathless delight, and Chanyeol was more than willing to melt into that chasm again, to feel the neediness upon his mouth.

At some point Chanyeol stumbled backwards by accident. And then the second time, it wasn’t an accident—it was Baekhyun pushing him back. The few paces backwards was Baekhyun pushing him as they kissed fervently, and Chanyeol felt his back bump onto something. The desk. Baekhyun seemed so slight, but Chanyeol felt so powerless as Baekhyun kissed him against the table feverishly, with something so beyond want and need.

Chanyeol’s head already felt hazy as Baekhyun came off his lips and moved towards his neck. Usually it felt hazy whenever he felt a hallucination coming, and Chanyeol was more than ready to ask Baekhyun to stop—but he realised it was a different kind of haziness. It was… some sort of high. Was it lust? Chanyeol breathlessly thought of it as Baekhyun pulled the skin of his neck with his lips. Chanyeol felt euphoric. _More, more,_ he thought. He wasn’t sure whether because it felt good, or that he wanted Baekhyun to overlay the marks his trauma gave him. Whatever. His neck was being peppered this kisses now, as if to soothe the bruises given to him. Chanyeol didn’t know how many he made. Two, maybe. Somehow he wanted to smile.

Baekhyun pulled away after that—an inch or two back. Chanyeol exhales, readjusting his lean against the desk. Out of all the things that Chanyeol thought could happen, none of it readied him to feel Baekhyun’s hand stroking him between his legs. Chanyeol lets out a sudden, shuddering moan that he never expected to come out past his lips.

It surprised him, actually. He hadn’t noticed his own arousal. Now that he did, his jeans felt stifling around his hips. Usually Chanyeol tried his hardest not to get aroused—for obvious reasons—but now he had stiffened on his own. He _enjoyed_ it too, and wanted Baekhyun to grasp him harder. Baekhyun’s eyes were onto him at all times, watching his reaction. Somehow, Chanyeol was willed to stare back. He couldn’t imagine how he’d looked like. Flushed to the tip of his nose, head bowed and letting out soft gasps past his lips. He couldn’t even speak.

Baekhyun’s hand moved to undo his belt and unzipped his jeans—and Baekhyun looked into his eyes the whole time. It was embarrassing, and Chanyeol tried to tear off of his gaze as much as he could—but he realised that Baekhyun was watching him carefully for his reactions, as if Chanyeol were to jump unexpectedly at any moment in time. It looked like Baekhyun learnt from last time. _Does he know?_ Chanyeol wondered as his jeans and underwear fell to his ankles, stepping out of them, accidently taking one of his shoes off the process. It was as if Baekhyun asked for his consent, he did so by stopping his hand off a few inches away from his arousal. Chanyeol looked at him. Chanyeol nodded to say yes. Baekhyun drops to his knees.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Chanyeol moaned, feeling his cock enveloped in the warmth of Baekhyun’s mouth. It caught him off-guard that Chanyeol fell to his elbows on the desk. Nothing that happened within the past fifteen minutes prepared him for _this_. Everything suddenly felt as if it was moving too fast. Chanyeol felt feverishly hot below his stomach. He could feel _everything_ that was happening to him. Every time Baekhyun moved his head, Chanyeol’s vision became dizzy. It was something that felt… it transcended _beyond_ euphoria. Chanyeol lets out a hoarse whimper every now and then, watching his length disappear beyond the other boy’s throat. It was at this time—to his humour—that Chanyeol learns that Baekhyun has his tongue pierced, the metal glinting into view every so often whenever Baekhyun flicks his tongue around his head.

Any thought that flew back to his trauma, it was overridden by the view of Baekhyun’s head bobbing up and down on his cock. Chanyeol never knew how it felt to want sexual pleasure until now. He felt so needy, resting his hand on Baekhyun’s hair to encourage the latter, bewitched to the stream of pleasure that was being given to him steadily.

Baekhyun eventually pulled away, and the sight of the string of saliva that connected them together made Chanyeol even stiffer. Baekhyun stood once more, and Chanyeol notices that he, too, had a rosy tint on his cheeks, and his eyes had become hooded. This, so far, had been the only clear emotion that Baekhyun had communicated. His feeling of lust, his soft gasps of breath, the slight part of his lips every time he exhaled. Chanyeol was entranced by it.

It was Baekhyun’s turn to loop his thumbs on the hem of his pants and lower it, and Chanyeol watched as his arousal came into view, curved against the boy’s stomach, longing for attention. At first Chanyeol thought that Baekhyun wanted the favour to be reciprocated, but Chanyeol lets out a girlish squeal as Baekhyun lifted him up to the desk and made him lie down, and spread his legs apart.

Baekhyun continuously surprised him. Chanyeol couldn’t predict what he would do next. Somehow, his small frame had lifted Chanyeol with ease. Chanyeol lay splayed across the desk now, knees folded against his chest, feeling inexplicably exposed. He felt as if he had to submit to something. It wasn’t until Baekhyun rested his bony hands against Chanyeol’s hips, and until Chanyeol felt the other’s cock prodding against his thigh, that Chanyeol fully realised what he was in for.

Chanyeol didn’t say no. He waited.

It turns out the initial insertion hurts anyway, regardless whether it’d been his father or a boy with twelve piercings. Baekhyun, despite his roughness, was surprisingly gentle about this ordeal. Chanyeol could read his impatience—Chanyeol knew he felt hellishly tight around Baekhyun’s size, and the latter didn’t bother to hide his enjoyment of it either. The boy’s brows were scrunched, clearly appreciating the suffocation of his cock, and he lets out a hiss when he became fully sheathed. Chanyeol was too ashamed to say that he was used to the burning feeling between his legs.

Baekhyun placed the other’s legs atop his shoulders. Chanyeol didn’t ask for him to wait, and either Baekhyun got the note or he didn’t care regardless, he began to rock his hips. Then, as if Baekhyun had gotten tired of waiting, he switched to using the full extent of his force, fucking him into oblivion, and Chanyeol cries out in rapture.

The sounds they made every time they closed the space between them lewdly echoes throughout the room, and this deepened Chanyeol’s flush. He moans feverishly every time Baekhyun thrusts into him, feeling the curve of the boy’s cock drag against his tightness. Chanyeol had looked at the door momentarily. If one of those boys had come in for any reason, that was death for Chanyeol. He wouldn’t be able to look at any of them in the eye anymore—but Baekhyun didn’t even seem bothered by the possibility of someone intervening.

In shorter words, Chanyeol felt like a whore somehow. He couldn’t get enough. He spread his legs wider, wanting to feel the other deeper inside him. Every time Baekhyun thrusts onto him, Chanyeol felt the back of his thighs pressed flush against the other’s hips. Rinse and repeat. Chanyeol couldn’t stop the moans that fell out of his mouth. None of his past experiences came to haunt him now. It just felt like pleasure—just how it’s meant to be—and Chanyeol was dizzy with it.

Baekhyun didn’t say it—well he never said anything so far—but Chanyeol knew he’d drowned in heavenly bliss. Unsurprisingly he was quiet during sex, too, only letting out occasional grunts and pleased gasps. Baekhyun’s steel eyes were hooded, and he was biting his lower lip, cherry red upon his face and below his stomach. His hooped piercings rocked with him in tandem every time he moved back and forth into the hot, sticky wetness between Chanyeol’s legs. To say that he was pleased was an understatement.

Chanyeol tried to imagine what Baekhyun saw now. A stick-thin frame fucked relentlessly upon a table, hair messily splayed upon the surface, hands gripping at the sides of the desk to stop himself recoiling. Shirt ridden up above the nipples, exposing the horrible scar upon a pale abdomen, flushed below the stomach, masculinity resting curved and dripping against his skin. Legs folded and hoisted above Baekhyun’s shoulders, with only one shoe donned on the left foot. Most importantly was the parts above the shoulders, probably—a face contorted beyond pleasure, moaning and whimpering almost pathetically, not even bothering to hide the needy, wanton sounds that escaped through parted lips.

Baekhyun’s efforts became sloppier and sloppier, his hips sometimes stuttering through thrusts. Inversely, his grip on Chanyeol’s hips became solid, as if he wanted to claw through his flesh. At one point Baekhyun’s hand scrambled to finish Chanyeol clumsily, thrusting into him with ragged breaths. Chanyeol’s breaths hitched with the movement of the other’s hand.

“F-Fuck I—” Chanyeol gasped, knuckles white as he gripped the table harder, “I’m—f-fuck, I—”

He came first, with an intense surge of force that arched his spine, uncontrollably spilling onto the pale expanse of his stomach. The moan that came with it racked his throat dry; loud at first, then a whimper whenever he felt his cock twitch, still enclosed between Baekhyun’s fist. The swell of the pleasure cools down into an afterthought, and Chanyeol’s last whine was in tandem with Baekhyun’s first, the latter finishing inside of him, falling into a momentary bask of the lukewarm heat before Baekhyun pulls out.

And then the norm followed. Silence.

Baekhyun lets go of his hips, and it was only now that Chanyeol realised Baekhyun had dug onto them with his nails, leaving ten distinct marks of reddened flesh. Baekhyun lowers Chanyeol’s legs and stalks away to put his pants back on, leaving Chanyeol in a dazed state.

Afterwards, Baekhyun just stared at him, as if he expected Chanyeol to do the same. This time, Chanyeol had nothing to say either. He stumbled around to look for tissues to clean up the mess on his stomach and whatever was spilled on the desk. Then quietly, he dons his clothes and his other shoe back on, before following Baekhyun outside.

Chanyeol smiles to himself. Point proven. _I’m not a coward._

Chanyeol expected to meet the others in an awkward moment of _you just had sex with our boss next door_ , but apparently only Soo was left in the room, wearing a set of headphones connected to a phone that was held by chubby starfish hands—the headphones were probably to block out the, umm, external sounds. A can of soda was left on the table, presumably from Junmyeon’s errand of fetching Chanyeol a drink. Baekhyun approached Soo to take the headphones out, and somehow, Soo responds without looking at him.

“They went out already. They told me to wait until you came out,” he said, staring intensely at the screen on his hands. He looked innocently at Baekhyun and Chanyeol, “What were you guys doing?”

Clearly he had no idea what happened, and clearly they were loud enough for others to hear. Baekhyun seemed unreactive to this and shrugged, starting to leave by the back door. Soo followed suit. Chanyeol, embarrassed, thought the least he could do was grab the soda and followed them out.

After going through what seems to be the mess room, he exited onto the cool night air, where the posse waited for him. Baekhyun had already climbed into his Chevrolet. Jongin and… Kai, was it? Perched at the back, giggling. Kris and Jongdae was already seated by the other car, Soo clumsily climbing into it without opening the door.

“You look like a bruised peach,” Jongdae shouted, clearly trying to stifle his laughter. Chanyeol slapped his neck and flushed in embarrassment, muttering something about having to hide it. Junmyeon kicked Jongdae’s car and the latter laughs, speeding away. Baekhyun followed suit without a word of goodbye—not even a look back.

Only Junmyeon remained, with his car. Chanyeol approaches him sheepishly, hand above where Baekhyun left him hickeys. Junmyeon only hummed with laughter.

“We knew you fucked,” Junmyeon chuckled, “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Chanyeol got on beside the driver’s seat, Junmyeon following after. 

They drove away from the hotel into the night. Chanyeol could only guess it was late—only the restaurants were open for the evening. Junmyeon somehow was okay with what Chanyeol just did. Chanyeol felt thoroughly awkward, if anything.

“Reunion my ass,” Chanyeol mumbled, “He just wanted to fuck.”

Junmyeon bursts out laughing after a minute’s silence, slapping the wheel.

“It’s the only way we know he still experiences human emotions,” Junmyeon snorts, “Still feels enough feelings to get his dick up.”

“Have you guys transported me back and forth _because_ you wanted him to fuck?” Chanyeol said, bewildered. Junmyeon shook his head quickly.

“No, no, of course not. We want you around to protect you. Him having sex with you was just… well, it just happens, you know?”

“Protect me from what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t,” Chanyeol frowned. To his surprise, Junmyeon shrugged.

“Well—I don’t know either,” he said, and Chanyeol knew he was telling the truth, because Junmyeon’s eyes looked clueless. Chanyeol’s brows furrowed. How could he do something without even knowing what he had to do? But then again, he took orders from someone who hasn’t spoken at all.

Not long after, Yura’s porch rolled into view. A moment of silence sat in the air. Junmyeon slowly turned to look at him.

“Did he treat you alright?” he asked. Chanyeol tilted his head, wondering what the nature of the question was. Chanyeol tried to read Junmyeon’s face. He couldn’t decipher why Junmyeon was asking him that question.

“Yeah,” he answered shortly. Junmyeon nodded and looked ahead.

Chanyeol climbed out the car, and the dust flew as Junmyeon drove his car out into the darkness of the neighbourhood. Chanyeol stood there for a moment, wondering what had just happened, before he shook his head and stumbled onto the porch, opening the door.

Yura was already home, digging into what seems like a tub of ice cream, her hair wet. The clock said somewhere around eight. Chanyeol took off his shoes and sat down next to her, stealing the spoon from her hands and swallowing it for himself. Yura didn’t seem to mind, her eyes fixed on the TV screen

“Saw your note, thanks for telling me you’re not dying tonight,” Yura said monotonically, taking the spoon back. Chanyeol only hummed. Both sat in silence, watching whatever Yura had on.

Ten minutes later, Yura grabbed him by the side of his collar. Chanyeol yelped, obviously shocked, before he slaps his neck, embarrassed.

“You saw nothing!” Chanyeol rasped, trying to pry her hands, but Yura seems to persist and pried _his_ hands off. Yura somehow seemed terribly concerned, shock painting her face.

“Who did this to you?” Yura shook him, to which Chanyeol’s head bobbled like a car decorative. Chanyeol tried to hide his flush.

“It’s nothing—I just—met a guy, and I—” Chanyeol scrambled to get his story right, but Yura just shook him even harder, holding the sides of his face.

“Are you okay, Chanyeol? Are you hurt? Who did this to you?” she says almost hysterically, “I swear to God I’ll make them fucking pay—”

“I—I just got fucking _laid_ , Yura, _okay?_ ” Chanyeol said, feeling abashed. Silence followed as Yura stared at him, bewildered. Chanyeol threw her hands off of him and cleared his throat.

“It wasn’t… rape. I consented to it. I said yes. Nothing bad happened to me,” Chanyeol said, stumbling through his words, realising now why Yura suddenly started acting up. Yura stared at him, silenced, and it was visible that she didn’t quite believe him. She looked at the dark spots that dotted Chanyeol’s neck. She blinked several times.

“Are you sure?” she said, quieter now. Chanyeol took a deep breath. He understood her concern, but if anything it made him feel hot around the face.

“Yes,” Chanyeol said, and before she said anything, he added, “I was sober.”

It took her a while to accept it, but she eventually nodded slowly, and let him go. Chanyeol, embarrassed, pulls his collar upwards and slunk at the end of the sofa, his arms crossed.

Silence followed where both were at a loss for words. Chanyeol understood why she was worried, but… he never thought he had to be concerned about _this._ He could feel Yura’s spirits lift, however. When he glanced to the side, her face had a little twitch of a smile—and Yura _never_ smiles.

“... Congratulations,” she said, and Chanyeol grunted.

“Don’t say that,” he muttered. Yura lets out a grunt that could only be interpreted as her version of laughter, pushing Chanyeol playfully.

“I’m serious. I’m happy that you’re…” Yura trailed off. Chanyeol tried to guess her words. _Getting over it?_ It seemed to be what Yura wanted to say initially, but Chanyeol could see she went against it. Instead, she says, “That you’re living life on your own terms.”

She threw her hands around him and embraced him. Chanyeol was speechless for a moment, before a smile came to his face, and he hugged her back.

“Thank you, Yura,” he said quietly, “Thank you.”

Some hour later, Chanyeol retreats to his bedroom, changing into his pajamas. He looked at the mirror, pulling his shirt down, examining the marks left on his neck.

He felt content, somehow.

He took his medication, brushed his teeth, and tucked himself under the covers. He laid in the silence, staring up at the ceiling, recollecting what had just happened a few mere hours ago. If he imagined it hard enough, he could still feel Baekhyun’s hands on his hips, legs hoisted above his shoulders…

Chanyeol snorted. He turned to the side and closed his eyes, ready for sleep to envelop him

His bedroom lights were still on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgehdgrfhhr wow hi! It’s been a while… you know, senior year and all… thank you for your patience <3
> 
> The story is rated for a reason, so I hope that the chapter wasn’t a surprise. Okay it’s a surprise still but like… I hope it’s still within bounds of what can be “expected” with a fic like this, haha.
> 
> I hope you guys won’t have to wait months for the next chapter, since I too, miss writing this story. I hope you are all doing well! leave me comments, because as common knowledge goes, you love me (jk… unless?)


	9. The Shootout

_"First they kiss, then they bite soft  
Then that bitch wanna play it off!" _

_In My Room, Frank Ocean_

* * *

After that night, it was radio silence from the boys.

For the first time in perhaps ever, Chanyeol wished for the pebble-knocking outside his window—but this week went without a single sound, nor a noise. Not even a beat-up Chevrolet or tattered convertibles waited outside, watching for his safety. Chanyeol was surprised to have developed a relationship this far with them to miss them—and he knew he had despised them at first—but now, not even a single throw of a pebble, or a surprise visit. Nothing.

The week went by with silence, and Chanyeol was bored out of his wits without a company. Yura was only available for a few hours at a time on the weekdays, and Chanyeol wasn’t familiar enough with the neighbourhood to take a stroll. He spent this time admiring the healing blots of bruises on his neck—which he looked at every so often—remembering how Baekhyun’s hands gilded down his body, a feverish burn left behind with every contact of skin…

Though simply remembering them hard won’t actually make them materialise out of thin air.

Wednesday rolled by, and still no contact from them. At this point, Chanyeol thought about the scariest, most dangerous scenario to think about: what if they weren’t real? He had entertained this a few times before, but Chanyeol always blotted it out of his brain—but it was a very real possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hallucinated about real people and interacting with them. That would explain the radio silence: they were simply images conjured from his brain. _But then again,_ he thought, _if they weren’t real, I must’ve conjured some very complex places…_

If anything, he could simply bring it up to the delightful Kim Minseok and see what he thinks.

Yura lets him travel alone to his appointment this time, giving him a bus fare and some extra change for himself. Chanyeol now waits for his therapist to call him, absent-mindedly putting his nails between his teeth, biting it off in automation…

“Hello, Chanyeol,” his pleasant voice wafted through, and Chanyeol greets him with a grimace. _Funny man,_ Chanyeol thought as he looked at the therapist. Kim Minseok was a constant in Chanyeol’s life. He always talked to Chanyeol as if they’d only met a second ago.

Chanyeol was invited into his room. He sat down and thought, _what a chore…_

“Do you not want to be here?” Kim Minseok clicks his pen, peering at him behind his glasses. Chanyeol lets out some sort of obnoxious burst of a laugh that died as soon as it came out of his mouth. Chanyeol _never_ wants to be here. Kim Minseok knows that, but apparently for the records, Kim Minseok has to ask it out loud to get verbal confirmation. Whatever makes the shrinks happy.

“How have you been the past week, Chanyeol?” Kim Minseok says, his tone so neutral that Chanyeol wouldn’t think of anything blander to compare it to, “A scale of 1 to 10.”

“Shut up,” Chanyeol mutters, then chuckles to himself. He doesn’t have a reason to be rude. He doesn’t have a reason to be mean to his psychiatrist, who just wanted to help him—but it’s always funny to do it, and Chanyeol had no idea why. Maybe because it was a challenge—nothing Chanyeol says ever fazes Kim Minseok—or maybe it was comfort to defy his shrink, as if that somehow made him feel better about his illnesses. Either way, Kim Minseok only pulled his lips into a thin line and wrote down on his clipboard.

“Have you been sexually active as of late, Chanyeol?” Kim Minseok asked out of the blue, and now it was _Chanyeol’s_ turn to be silenced. Remembering his hickeys, Chanyeol slapped his neck to cover it up, furiously burning up, avoiding eye contact with his psychiatrist.

“What if I am?” Chanyeol said bashfully, looking away—prideful, really and he hears Kim Minseok scratch something into his clipboard. Chanyeol frowned.

“Why are you writing that down?” Chanyeol protested, “Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing? Aren’t you proud I’m getting over it?”

“As your psychiatrist, I need to record if you report being sexually active,” Kim Minseok adjusted his glasses as he spoke, “We talked about this, Chanyeol. You have sexual trauma. Victims of trauma may seek to re-enact their trauma in order to gain control over it—”

“What the fuck?” Chanyeol stood up suddenly, scraping his chair, and Kim Minseok only sighed in response, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“This is a common occurrence, Chanyeol, and I simply need to make sure you’re not being sexually active due to deviant behaviour or wanting to forcefully gain control over your trauma—”

“You think I like getting raped,” Chanyeol shouts, and he could see Kim Minseok’s eye twitch in discomfort as he said it, “You think because my dad raped me, I’m going to go out there and look for men who are down to take advantage over me—”

“Chanyeol, you know that is not what I said,” Kim Minseok said firmly, and Chanyeol turned his chair in outrage, seething. Fucking shrinks! Here he was getting over his trauma and Kim Minseok turns around to tell him that it’s some sort of bad diseased move he did. _Nothing_ he did was right, that was what it really boiled down into. His trauma was going to inevitably haunt him forever and nothing Chanyeol says or does will ever be uninfluenced by it. A tiny little voice in his heart tried to reason that maybe Kim Minseok was right—and even if Kim Minseok wasn’t, he was just making sure Chanyeol wasn’t doing anything dangerous—but all Chanyeol could see was red now, and he snatched Kim Minseok’s clipboard in rage, snapping it in half, scowling when the man stays seated, unfazed.

“Chanyeol,” Kim Minseok said sternly, “You need to calm down.”

“Shut the fuck up. Fuck you. Fuck off!” Chanyeol shouts in succession, pacing up and down the room, enraged. He looked at the door and, realising that he could simply walk out, made his way to it, and this time Kim Minseok went to block his path.

“Chanyeol, if you walk out now, I’ll have to put down that you’re—”

“Sod off and die!” Chanyeol shoved him aside, storming out of the room. Kim Minseok could be heard calling after him, but he didn’t chase after him. It wasn’t until Chanyeol was a good half-mile from the building that he realised he might’ve made a few crucial mistakes.

Kim Minseok might call Yura—that was Chanyeol’s first and scariest thought. That shouldn’t happen, since Chanyeol’s 18 now, but it was a good possibility that it might happen. Plus, Chanyeol stormed off in blind rage, and that could be perceived as an episode. Fuck! Maybe he could be sent back to the goddamn nuthouse…

It was unlikely that Kim Minseok would seek him out, but Chanyeol’s paranoid mind took over his better conscience anyway and he hid around the city. It was too early to come back home, and he really didn’t want to face Yura if Kim Minseok ended up calling. So he strayed around, wanting to fill up the rest of the hour he was supposed to be in therapy…

And guess who he ran into.

“Hi, Chanyeol! Over here!” Little Soo waved to him, perched at the porch of an apartment. Chanyeol happened to be wandering around the sleazy part of town, so he supposed the chances of them meeting by random wasn’t all that low. Junmyeon was there too, alert for anyone suspicious that was walking by, and smiled at Chanyeol—but he somewhat frowned when Chanyeol approached him.

“You haven’t ratted us out, have you?” Junmyeon said worriedly, and Chanyeol lets out a short laugh.

“I wouldn’t have even known you’re here.”

“I’m told to look out for anyone who’s usually not in the neighbourhood,” Junmyeon said sheepishly, “But alright. I guess if you wanted to rat us out, you wouldn’t be here to do it.”

“Exactly,” Chanyeol shrugged. He leans next to Junmyeon, who was sitting on the hood of the red convertible. They began to exchange words—the boys are just inside the building now, doing their round of dealing.

“Sorry we haven’t visited you round,” Junmyeon apologised, “We’re trying to keep a low profile. We had a bit of an accident last time we dealt. We thought we’d keep you safe from getting framed for it.”

“I guess it can’t be helped,” Chanyeol said, a little surprised, touched by how thoughtful they were of him. Well, a word of warning would’ve been nice, but he guessed they did their best.

They continued their chatter, Chanyeol forgetting every premise of getting home on time, but the more he stayed, the more Junmyeon got antsy. Chanyeol thought he was getting annoyed by how long he was staying, but it turned out that the boys were taking _far_ too long inside. The sun began to set a little later on, and still no word. Junmyeon had half a mind to go in and check, but he mustn't leave his post. It’s not the first time the boys stayed inside, but usually when they did, it was not for good reasons.

Eventually the sun had already set, and Chanyeol figured that he had to go home before Yura gave him another earful. Just before he parted ways however, Jongdae burst out of the building—followed by the twins, who were helping him walk, as well as Baekhyun and Kris, who was booking it for their cars.

“What?! What happened, what happened?!” Junmyeon immediately set off, but even Chanyeol could see that something was wrong—and that they needed to flee the scene immediately. Jongdae had blood all over him, and was convulsing, tearfully repeating _I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to_ under his breath over and over again as the twins haphazardly shoved him at the back of one of the convertibles. Jongdae had dropped a gun and—without thinking—Chanyeol shoved it inside his jacket pocket, instinctively knowing that if that was left behind, they could get in trouble. They had little time to question why Chanyeol was here, and just made sure everyone was in the car before they dashed off. Chanyeol watched Jongdae writhe around in pain at the back seat, the twins pinning him down. Junmyeon was at the wheel, asking a million questions and pointing what seemed to be blame left and right. Chanyeol couldn’t do anything else but watch it all unfold.

Apparently, one of the takers there was aggressive, and shook Jongdae and a bit when he measured his goods wrong. There was a lot of back and forth between Jongdae accusing the man of trying to get more for his money, and the man accusing Jongdae of cheating his prices. Just as Jongdae was about to give up and give him extra for the trouble however, the man punched him down to size, and an altercation ensued. Even the twins had to get involved from hearing the commotion outside, and Chanyeol could see that they were bruised and scratched from what had happened.

So Jongdae was very close to getting beaten into a pulp, and the man out of nowhere had pulled a gun on him, landing a shot on his shoulder. In shock, Jongdae snatched the gun and shot the man smack bang in the middle of his temple, and he fell like an elephant in the forest. Chaos ensued and they had to quickly evacuate the building before anyone called the police—and the rest was history.

No-one was chasing them, so they ceased that emergency. The only emergency now was fixing the gaping hole inside Jongdae’s shoulder. He kept muttering in agony _I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to_ like some sort of mantra, but the twins kept shaking their heads in denial for some reason, trying to stop the bleeding.

They drove straight to the desolate warehouse where they resided, carrying Jongdae’s limp ragdoll body in its premises. As soon as his help was not needed, Chanyeol steered clear out of their way, not wanting to be a burden.

* * *

Chanyeol escapes into the cool night air, his heart threatening to leap out of his mouth and struggle into the dirt. For the first time in perhaps _ever_ , Chanyeol was very much dizzy over affairs that were rooted in real life. It was such an odd moment to be triumphant in, but for the first time, he was worrying over something other than himself, and something _not_ caused by his stupid defects. The mixed feelings swirled in his head, replaying blood soaking Jongdae’s shirt over and over again, trying to process it in his mind.

Chanyeol tolerated Jongdae’s presence the least, but at the bottom of his heart he worried—truly—of the man’s welfare. Junmyeon seemed confident that he was going to turn out fine—but then again, Junmyeon’s always confident, and Chanyeol thought he could hear his voice wobble with certain fear. Chanyeol tried not to think about it too much, but… it was a horrible thought, nonetheless. Thinking about death.

He stands outside the warehouse for a while, too awkward to go back inside. Curiously, he spots Baekhyun’s hazy figure out in the open field, splayed across the grass and the flowers. It looked like he’d arrived at the warehouse last. Out of all people, Chanyeol thought maybe Baekhyun would be the one to stay back and help out with the whole fiasco. Whatever position he has in the hierarchy, apparently it’s not Baekhyun’s job to tend to the wounded—and it’s certainly not his job to care, either.

Chanyeol trudges against the grass towards him, looking back to see that he’d left trails where he trodden on the grass. Baekhyun’s lying in the midst of it, half-buried by the dark greenery. His body gave out not a single shiver, despite only being clad in a tank top and shorts. The moonlight bounces off all of his twelve silver piercings, and it glares into Chanyeol’s eyes like the devil’s stare.

Chanyeol sits down next to the boy who came from hell, crossing his legs.

“Jongdae just got shot,” Chanyeol began, as if he was starting a meaningful conversation, “Shouldn’t you… you know, check up? You being the big boss and all.”

Not surprisingly, Baekhyun doesn’t answer. His eyes stare back to the moon, hands behind his back. Chanyeol wonders if he’s in deep thought—or captivated by the moonlight perhaps—or thinking of nothing at all. No matter how deep Chanyeol looked into his eyes, no matter how far he searched, Baekhyun’s eyes returned nothing. Not even as much as a hint.

“You must be great at the doctor’s office,” Chanyeol rubs an eyelid, “Come for an appointment and sit there, like a fucking gargoyle.”

Chanyeol lies down beside him, hands crossed against his chest. He looks at the moon, and the stars, and the void blackness that glared at him like Baekhyun’s ears did. Staring into the night was like staring into Baekhyun’s eyes; captivating, but in the end, you would’ve learned nothing—no matter how far you look.

He heard the grass shuffle, and thought that Baekhyun was about to leave—except Baekhyun had moved to hover over him, like a ghost. Chanyeol tensed up at their closeness. The tips of the boy’s hair tickled his cheeks, like a silent tease. His piercings’ glare died with the shadow, but his eyes remained the most powerful light in the universe, a twinkle dancing slowly across the colour of his pupils. Chanyeol silently counts his piercings. Five hoops and seven studs. Chanyeol looked closer. One of the hoops is a dangling cross. One stud is the face of a puppy. Another is a daisy, the center a little yellow stone.

Chanyeol couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t captivated.

Chanyeol, to put it simply, was dumbstruck. Here was Baekhyun—such a moment of breathless delight—gazing into his face, like how God had admired Adam as he materialised. Chanyeol didn’t think he deserved such flattery, but Baekhyun _somehow_ made him _feel_ that way. Chanyeol didn’t know whether it was really Baekhyun that had changed, or some other element was changing how Chanyeol was seeing him, but suddenly Chanyeol had the overwhelming urge to cup his face, and feel the softness of his cheeks.

Baekhyun did it first anyhow, slowly reaching a finger to lay upon Chanyeol’s visage. He felt cold. _So_ so cold, frozen to the tips of his fingers, slowly brushing themselves up upon Chanyeol’s burning cheeks. Chanyeol thought maybe his own vision was playing with him—and perhaps it was too soon to say this—but Baekhyun’s brows seemed to ease up, free of its straight-line tension. His face said something like… _tenderness_ (or perhaps, that was what Chanyeol desperately hoped for). Chanyeol was burning up like a fever now, watching Baekhyun’s pale fingers brush against his cheeks—his hand was like porcelain, white with his lightning veins surging with blue, as if his state of life was close to a kiss with Death.

His finger slowly dragged itself across Chanyeol’s jaw now, fluttering across his throat, resting on the yellowing bruise that he himself had Chanyeol a mere week ago. Chanyeol lets out a soft, choked noise as Baekhyun thumbs his skin gently, playing with the collar of his shirt. Was this a tease? A mocking gesture? Chanyeol could only guess.

Surely Chanyeol’s body leapt with every thump of his chest now.

Baekhyun gingerly laid his head onto Chanyeol’s chest, nestling himself into his body. Chanyeol, speechless, could do nothing more but hesitantly wrap his arms around him like a wonder. _We barely know each other,_ Chanyeol’s head screams, _I don’t know anything about you_ —yet it felt as if they’ve known each other for so painfully long, and have just been reunited now. Baekhyun could no doubt hear the violent thumps of his chest, beating and struggling to cope with the boy’s display of tenderness. Chanyeol could not read sympathy from Baekhyun’s face, yet here he was, expressing it for the first time—and _conventionally_ at that.

 _Baekhyun_ , Chanyeol wanted to call out. He had so many questions to ask. _Why me? Why are you protecting me? Why have you chosen me out of all people?_ Yet the words seem to be stuck upon his throat every time Chanyeol gazed at his face. Chanyeol had never felt so relieved yet so tense. He was at a loss of what to do.

The only thing he could think of doing was to raise his arm, ever-so-slowly, and run it through Baekhyun’s hair. Chanyeol trembled as he did so, feeling as if his touch was tainting something sacred. What he did not expect was for Baekhyun’s hair to be so _soft_. It ran through his fingers like threads of silk, and Chanyeol’s heart threatened to burst out of his chest when he saw Baekhyun’s eyes close at the touch, as if he felt… _safe_. _Comforted._ Chanyeol raked his hand carefully through his hair, moving the strands away from his face—and Baekhyun’s boyishness emerged, denoted by uncertainty upon his face. A small scar rests above his forehead, hidden behind his hair, and Baekhyun seems to shiver when Chanyeol gently runs his thumb upon it.

And it was at that moment, Chanyeol realised that Baekhyun was just as scared as he was.

Here was a boy who had stared into the devil’s eyes and returned alive—but in the end, he was still just a boy. Chanyeol could see it; he curled up small now, like a cocoon, nestled against Chanyeol’s body. Chanyeol had never noticed the way his eyelashes fluttered; the nervous pout of the lips he kissed just a week ago. He too, understood how Chanyeol felt in the world—small, with the infinite void surrounding them like an unforgiving chasm, forever relentless and harsh.

But whatever Baekhyun has seen, Chanyeol would never know.

“Baekhyun!” a faraway voice echoes into the field, and Baekhyun’s head immediately perked up. Junmyeon’s calling.

“He’s ready,” he says. Baekhyun picks himself up, giving Chanyeol one last, long look, before the venom returns into his eyes and he leaves, leaving a trail of trodden grass in his wake.

Whatever Chanyeol had come close to, it leaves his grasp like water.

Chanyeol stares into the distance for a little while, disappointment weighing his heavy heart. He followed suit, hands shoved into his pockets in some certain sadness.

When Chanyeol enters, the warehouse seems somber. Chanyeol sees Kris briefly, the man’s hands drenched in blood. They briefly share eye contact, but the overtowering man shook his head with some sense of graveness and nudged past him.

Jongdae seems fine, albeit a little shocked. His bloodied shirt had been discarded onto the floor, his shoulder now freshly bandaged up. His hair was damp and stuck to his face, seated on the tattered leather sofa. Next to him was Jongin—or Kai—cleaning up the bloody mess, while the other twin seemed to prepare something on a metal tray.

Everyone in the room seems tense, even though it looked like the crisis has been averted.

“Did you see it?” Junmyeon spoke up, addressing the twins, “Did you make sure?”

“Yes, we saw—”

“—bullet in the head—”

“—probably dead in an instant—”

“—we checked him out—”

“—he stopped breathing.”

Everyone in the room seems to hold a silent breath, as if shocked at the revelation. Chanyeol didn’t exactly understand, but by the pale, ghastly look on his face, and putting two and two together, Jongdae seemed to have…

“Oh no,” Chanyeol gasps audibly, the information like cold water to his sleepy brain. Soo whimpers, taking off his aviator hat, holding it close to his chest. Chanyeol looked towards Baekhyun, to see how he would react—but he stayed stone cold, face void of any emotion, despite the fact that he’d just learnt that Jongdae had just committed manslaughter. It was in the heat of the moment, and it was self-defense… yet the heaviness hung around the room like cobwebs.

Kris seems to have returned. Splotches of blood remain on his shirt, but his hands are now clean.

“I’ll go back and make sure the news doesn’t spread,” the man says gruffly, to which Junmyeon nods. The closing of the door seems like such a loud noise in the silence.

“It’s ready,” Kai—or Jongin—walks across the room solemnly, separating from his twin. He stands next to Jongdae, holding the metal tray. Upon it were a few needles and some trinkets of sort. Chanyeol stands, gawping, thinking they were going to _kill_ Jongdae—but Kris had patched him up, and so it wouldn’t make sense.

“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to,” Jongdae started to sob, and Chanyeol sensed that something very, _very_ sinister was about to happen. Little Soo clambered up onto his lap, squeezing him into a hug. The twins looked mournful and sympathetic. Baekhyun strode across the room with no emotion, pulling latex gloves onto his hand, picking up the needle with his bony fingers. It was a needle, not a syringe—and the glaring sight of it made Chanyeol’s body shiver. Chanyeol’s eyes darted across three things rapidly. Baekhyun. Needle. Jongdae. _Baekhyun. Needle. Jongdae_. He couldn’t figure out what was about to happen, and it made him itch.

Jongdae’s terrified face resonated with a memory of Chanyeol’s, and it was an odd time to recall a memory, but Chanyeol lets it play back inside his brain. It was a patient, Chanyeol remembers. Back in the nuthouse. There were maybe three, four nurses pinning him down. The guy was sweating and shaking, as if he’d contracted rabies, fearfully looking at the nurses like a terrified puppy. Chanyeol couldn’t remember how or why he was like that—maybe he was suffering from a schizophrenic episode. Anyways, one of the doctors came in with this long, fat syringe. The patient started howling uncontrollably—such a loud piercing noise—and they struggled to make him lay still long enough to administer the sedative.

Jongdae was like that—except he just squirmed in his seat, as if he knew he couldn’t escape it. His face was almost the same as that patient. Scared beyond his wits. Scared of what, Chanyeol didn’t know, but his eyes were fixated on the needle and Jongdae’s fists were balled up until they were white.

He looked at Baekhyun, and his eyes seemed as if they were about to melt. Jongdae pleaded something that sounded like _please have some mercy_ , but Baekhyun paid no heed. The latter heartlessly tore Little Soo away from embracing Jongdae’s frame, Junmyeon carrying the child away from the room. So there was Baekhyun and Jongdae left, as well as the twins—and Chanyeol, who knew little of what was going on.

After a silent struggle, Jongdae seemed to have admitted defeat. His arms hung loose by his sides, his hair sticking onto his damp forehead. Baekhyun wipes the needle clean, and Jongdae simply tilts his head somberly.

“Left,” Jongdae muttered, and this was about the only thing Baekhyun complied with. Baekhyun reaches for Jongdae’s left ear and, wordlessly, drove the needle through the cartilage. There was no blood—not so much as a little droplet—which greatly shocked Chanyeol, for some reason. Baekhyun picked up the little metal trinket on the tray (which Chanyeol shortly realised was a silver little earring) and slid it inside Jongdae’s ear just as he pulled out the needle, screwing it in place.

And it was from there that Chanyeol realised something very, very horrible.

Four pieces of silver hung from Jongdae’s left ear now, and suddenly they seemed to burn holes in Chanyeol’s vision. The twins had two each—haha, that’s funny now. Two dead bodies for each twin? Is that how much they’ve killed? Was it two for both, or two each? Kris had four, if Chanyeol’s memory served him correctly. _Four bodies._ So does Junmyeon. Four. Four! And _Soo_ … oh god, that’s terrible. Soo had one. One too many. Had that little boy killed a man to earn his piercing? What about…

Chanyeol fearfully swivelled his head around to look at Baekhyun, who was in the middle of putting his needle away. He counted…

Twelve. _Twelve._

Chanyeol paled. He knew it. _He knew it._ He’s walked into some strange little cult and it was only time that he must prove his membership by spilling someone else’s blood. Despite his brain desperately shouting _NO! NO IT ISN’T! THEN WHY WOULD JONGDAE BE AVERSE TO IT?,_ Chanyeol was already paling and heaving. Baekhyun’s piercings weren’t for show—it’s a _goddamn body count_. Surely it was a matter of time they made Chanyeol a hole in his ear for the exact same reason. Or worse, have his body represented as a little silver stud. And it could be on _anyone’s_ ear…

Chanyeol suddenly felt very, very sick. He tried to quietly make his way out, but his legs gave away and he cluttered onto the floor, catching _everyone’s_ attention. It was him or them now, Chanyeol thought. Kai—or Jongin, who cares—had started to approach him like a wounded animal, and Chanyeol gasped so loudly that he momentarily stopped breathing. He can’t let them approach him.

“Chanyeol—”

“—are you—”

“—okay?”

The twins came up to him, and Chanyeol had to act fast before _they_ try to kill him. He felt something poke at his chest— _the gun! The gun!_ And he pulled it out shakily, pointing at Kai—or Jongin—and the twin fearfully raised his hands up.

“You sick fuck,” Chanyeol hoarsely whispered, unable to find his voice, blinded by the silver mass of piercings each person had in that room, “You sick fuck!” he repeats, louder this time—and it resonates throughout the room like a scared cry of an animal.

“Put the gun down.” Kai-or-Jongin said gently, hands raised in submission. He steps back in fear when Chanyeol disables the safety.

“Sick fucks. All of you, sick in the fucking _head!_ ” Chanyeol sobbed, stepping back and away. He dared one look at Baekhyun, but the boy’s piercings glared before Baekhyun’s eyes did, and it was all that it took for Chanyeol to dash out of the door, running blindly and howling.

Chanyeol didn’t know how he got out of the warehouse. There were a dozen more of the boys or so, each bearing at least a silver little trinket in their ears, and maybe they’d only moved out of the way because Chanyeol was waving a gun with the safety off. Chanyeol didn’t remember the journey back home either—all he knew was that he ran all the way, and that he fell to his knees and skinned it a few times, and when it hurt to run he walked, then when it hurt to walk he crawled. _On_ his skinned knees. And when he got home he burst into the bedroom—or the bathroom—he didn’t know at this point—and he swallowed every pill he could find. And it was at this point that everything became very hazy and Yura found him and took away the gun just in time before Chanyeol could shoot himself in the leg, and he convulsed on the floor for what seemed to be a very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god HELLO again! Back with another chapter
> 
> I'm sorry that this is like quite short. I didn't realise 9th chapter wasn't published and I was working on the 10th... so I had to scramble to get this done haha T_T
> 
> Stay tuned!!! <3


	10. Cracking

_"When the night comes  
I carve the secret between you and me   
After putting a bookmark on the night to recall   
I secretly open it." _

_For Lovers Who Hesitate, Jannabi_

* * *

Chanyeol loved his father.

He was a friendly, respectable sort of man. Schoolteacher, actually. The one thing Chanyeol always admired about him was the way he dressed; he was always neat, with clean shoes, and donned a colourful or funny tie his wife bought for him. Chanyeol loved him to the ends of the earth—he was kind, gentle, he pushed his son to new heights but Chanyeol never felt as if he was under pressure.

One day, they went about refurbishing the house. His parents had bought the house from an old couple, who used to reside it themselves. Chanyeol had been tasked with the job of peeling the wallpaper off, so that they could redo the wallpaper. Chanyeol went about cheerily scraping it all off, the white popcorn wall coming off in bits—only to find a rat hole smack bang in the middle of it, covered up by the wall, and they had to call pest control to smoke it out.

That same night, his father went to his bedroom and told him to take his clothes off.

Chanyeol thought about scraping wallpaper for weeks afterwards. He thought of it intensely every time his father whispered ever so gently upon his ear, giving him The Look, telling him it was The Time. Chanyeol thought of scraping the lovely popcorn wall, white and bare and nothing to see, nothing wrong with it except that they just felt that they needed to replace it—then he wondered whether he should've scraped it off at all, if he knew there was an ugly, festering rat hole behind it.

Chanyeol was in denial of it for a long, long time—even now, he thought it was all just a collection of unrealistic nightmares. How could his beloved father do this to him? How could the father he admired, he looked up to for all his life, spread his lithe little legs and lower the warmth of his body unto him?

At first Chanyeol tried to blot it out of his head. He made excuses. _He didn't mean it._ The excuses got more outrageous. _He was sleepwalking. He was drunk. He was tired._ Every time it happened, Chanyeol tried to justify it. _It was my punishment for showering too long today. I deserved it because I forgot to hand in my homework._ Eventually he stopped making excuses and accepted that this was his life; that this was how he meant to live, and that nobody was really meant to dislike how life took them to places that made them uncomfortable. He tried to justify it even further. That this was just as hard as living with poverty. This was just as hard as starving. That various people lived in squalid conditions every day, and he simply lived the same norm.

Then he wondered—was he _meant_ to suffer like this? Even the beggars he passed in the streets had their joys, even if it was the littlest of things. A starving boy in some underdeveloped country would one day encounter food, even if he had to wait for it. Chanyeol found _no_ little joy in his daily life. The only happiness he found was in cutting his own flesh open, grieving over his lost innocence, marvelling in the fact that this kind of hurt was at least in his own control. The little things he had control over, he grasped tightly in his hands. At least the uniform white scars upon his body were under his control. At least scrubbing his body raw to cleanse himself was under his control. At least changing the bed sheets to rid of his father's musky smell was under his control.

The only thing that made him endure it for so long—funnily enough—was his father. _Does it hurt?_ he would ask, _I can go slower if you want,_ he would say. _I'll always be gentle with you, 'Yeollie. I don't want to hurt you._ Chanyeol reasoned that it could be worse. That his father still looked out for him, despite the deep, shameful humiliation that throbbed within his veins. That despite the torture, his father still ensured his safety and well-being. Chanyeol pulled so many strings to justify it. _He never beats me. He never comes home drunk. He always pays rent on time. He buys me things I like._ His father never accepted no for an answer, but Chanyeol reasoned that there were greater trade-offs.

His reasoning turned darker and darker. _At least it's me,_ he would mutter himself in the middle of the night, watching blood trickle to the tips of his fingers, _at least he's not hurting other vulnerable children_. Every time it happened, Chanyeol thought of the students his father taught at school, and reasoned that he was the buffer—he was the sole stopper, the only reason his father wasn't running rampant and touching other kids. _So maybe this is a good thing_ , he would say to himself, _if not me, who else?_

It was Yura who pulled him out of this bubble, tore away all these strings, and said—with tears in her eyes— _things aren't meant to be this way_.

Chanyeol would always remember how it happens. His father would come home. He would lean on the doorframe. First Chanyeol wouldn't be able to look at him, so he'd stare at his father's polished shoes. Then his father would call to him softly— _'Yeollie_ , he'd say—and Chanyeol would shudder as he slowly forced his eyes upwards, to look at his father's slacks, the hem of his shirt tucked under his leather belt, his stripy tie—

Then his father would give him The Look, and that'd be the cue for Chanyeol to climb upstairs to his bedroom and wait for his father.

Chanyeol reasoned he was safe now. His father's in jail. He was miles away from his old hometown. That he could no longer mark Chanyeol's body with his disgusting, clammy tongue and teeth. That he could no longer force the pulsating warmth between his legs.

But just in case, Chanyeol vowed to never, ever lay his eyes upon his face again. When his father would materialise as a hallucination, and lure Chanyeol into its fake reality, Chanyeol violently promised to never look at his father's face.

He could never experience such amounts of humiliation ever again.

* * *

Chanyeol found that he was handcuffed to the bed.

Yura held a finger in front of his mouth before he could scream in fear, out of bad past associations with being pinned down or restrained. Chanyeol, reasoning that nothing bad could happen to him as Yura was nearby, relaxed into the bed, trying to take in his surroundings.

A hospital.

"Bastard!" Chanyeol hissed at his sister, knowing that she was the reason he ended up here. Chanyeol had swore up and down that he should _not_ be in a hospital unless it was for physical ailments. His sister simply shook her head. Chanyeol both cursed and thanked her for being way too calm as well as taking his shit.

"We wouldn't be here if it weren't for you popping pills left and right. Calm down," Yura said monotonically, pushing his chest down. Her hand was surprisingly gentle despite her robotic voice. Shortly afterwards, she rotated her neck and called for a nurse. Chanyeol held his breath, averting his eyes from the hospital staff as a few nurses scurried his way, undoing his leather cuffs.

“That’ll be all, thank you,” a calm voice addressed the nurses, and Chanyeol groaned as the face of Kim Minseok appeared before him. He went to retrieve Chanyeol’s hand, checking the device that was attached to his thumb (which Chanyeol only realised when Kim Minseok picked it up).

“Thankfully the substances he took were not enough to cause anything major—he might experience some lightheadedness, but he’ll be fine otherwise,” Kim Minseok pushed up his glasses as he spoke, “I can discharge him today, but that all depends on his assessment. Ideally I’d also like to have him in intensive therapy from now,” he continued, gesturing to him. Yura crossed her arms—to others this would seem as if she was displeased, but Chanyeol knew more than anything that this was her way of saying that she was relieved.

“I don’t have any problems with that,” Yura said in response. Chanyeol’s mouth fell open, frowning, looking at his psychiatrist and his sister.

“Since—Since when do you get to decide these things for me?” Chanyeol protested, rubbing his wrists, feeling the grogginess immediately hit him. Yura gave him a square smile—which was her attempt at being socially friendly.

“Since I signed up as your caregiver,” she said without cheer, “I also believe you owe your psychiatrist an apology.”

Chanyeol looked up at his therapist, before averting his eyes. He remembered how he’d made outlandish accusations against him; how he’d gotten incessantly angry and abruptly exited his therapy session. Chanyeol hadn’t known exactly why he did it—he’d felt particularly delirious lately. Still, he shouldn’t be taking out his anger on someone who had actively tried to help him out for the past year, even if he’s a nuthouse staff.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, clearing his throat before speaking louder, “I’m sorry I said some awful things to you.”

“It’s all in order,” Kim Minseok nodded—then, shocking Chanyeol, he apologised; “I too, apologise for the things I said last time we met. I re-evaluated the things I have spoken and I suppose I’ve toed a little out of line. But I would like to clarify that it’s all for your wellbeing—I’m sorry if my intentions were poorly read.”

“S… Sure,” Chanyeol muttered back, unsure how to respond. Kim Minseok beams—as well as Kim Minseok could beam.

“I’ll have you assessed for a bit—but I’m confident that you’ll be fit enough to be discharged.”

Kim Minseok smiles.

“I hope your knees get better.”

“My what?” Chanyeol echoed, before he looked down at himself. Oh, his knees! They were patched up, and it hurt to bend them. He looked away.

How he’d kill to be right in the head.

* * *

The ride home was certainly awkward.

The last time there was tension between them, it was when Chanyeol accidentally snapped Yura’s DS in half. That was three years ago. She wouldn’t talk to him for three days—then afterwards she admitted that she did it because it was funny to see Chanyeol so sullen about it. But this was certainly nothing they couldn’t pass over easily—and though Yura was usually reserved, she was never the type to give him the silent treatment.

Chanyeol wasn’t sure Yura wasn’t talking because she didn’t want to—or because it was her natural state. Either way, Chanyeol find himself shrinking towards the window of the car, as if trying to squeeze himself into the gap between the seat and the window.

He started chewing his nails—something he noticed he hasn’t done in a while. Off they go, one by one, clipped by his teeth. All of his incisors must be smoothed out by now. Then he ran out of nails, so he went to chew the skin around his fingernails. Then the skin around his fingernails ran out, and he was faced with confronting Yura out loud instead of having imaginary conversations inside his head.

“Are you mad at me?” he blurted out—and it’s way too loud for his own liking. His heart was at his throat now, ready to explode. It didn’t help that she took a long pause before answering him—but her voice, to his shock and concern, came out all wobbly.

“No,” she croaked. That was it; classic Yura-style conversing. Minimal words. Yet Chanyeol knew, this time, that she had a lot more to say.

“What did you tell him?”

“That you just had one of your episodes,” Yura said, as if carefully articulating his words, “And that you scraped your knees unrelated to that.”

She saved his ass. _Yura, you bastard, lying to a doctor_. Chanyeol looked at the dashboard blankly.

“And…” he hesitated, “And the gun?”

“Left it out of the picture.”

He must’ve been a sight.

"I know you're pissed. It's fine," Chanyeol looked at her reflection on the window beside him, "I'm psychotic, but I can take a jab. You can say it."

She says nothing.

"You had to miss out on work, monitor me constantly, deal with my shitty breakdowns…” Chanyeol swallowed thickly, “Your fun, single-woman lonely life has been taken up by my presence. I know it annoys you. I know I take up a lot of space.”

The tears start trickling down his face. He couldn’t help it. Out it all came. It shook him so much that he was soon flooded with tears like a little child, grief painting his face. He didn’t know why he was so emotional all of a sudden.

“I—I—I’m a fucking wreck, I’m not mentally _stable,_ I—I have breakdowns and episodes e-every single fucking second of the day, a-and I—” he sobbed, face in his hands, tears trickling down between the gaps of his fingers—”I-I don’t have a job, every time I f-fucking break down you have to help me—god I can’t even fucking take a shower without cracking up, I—I—”

The car jumped to a stop from being braked too suddenly. Red light. Chanyeol’s cries were louder in the absence of the car’s thrumming.

“I’m not fucking normal. I’m fucking high maintenance and _you can fucking say it,_ goddammit Yura!” Chanyeol choked up, shouting at her, “You don’t have t-to put up with it. I know you’re tired of it. I—I am, too. The guys at work must’ve been l-looking at you funny every time y-you take a day off. Taking care of your psycho retard of a little brother—”

“ _Don’t fucking say that_ ,” Yura said sharply.

Chanyeol is rendered into shocked silence.

“Don’t. Don’t say those words. _Ever_ ,” Yura stressed her syllables, looking down at her lap. Her nails were gripping the sides of the seat. She was shaking. Chanyeol couldn’t see her face—it was overshadowed by her hair.

“Yes, you’re high maintenance. Yes, it takes up a lot of energy to take care of you. That’s reality,” she said quietly, “But don’t—”

She took a sharp, shaky breath, “—don’t think—for one second—that I’m suffering from it. You’re not a burden. You’re not a weight that I’m forced to lug around. I _care_ about you and I’m willing to invest some of my time in it. _Yes_ it may annoy me if I have to take a day off for it—but at the end of the day, I’m so much more willing to see you thrive than suffer alone.”

Yura had finally looked up. Her lip was quivering. Her eyes were glassy and the tears pooled at the edge of her eyes like a bubble, threatening to spill. Chanyeol knew she was fighting not to let it slide down her cheek.

“ _I_ told mom that I wanted to take you in,” Yura whispered, her voice barely a murmur, “I’m happy to bear the responsibilities that you come with. And it’s not because I feel sorry for you. It’s not out of pity. I love you, Chanyeol. You just haven’t accepted that yet.”

Chanyeol stared at her, lulled into silence. Here she sat in her most vulnerable form—god, in a fucking red light out of all places—and told him that he was not a burden. It was so… difficult to accept, somehow. That apparently, her drainage of energy every time she took care of him, was worth it. For what? Chanyeol didn’t know. All he knew was that he was safe with her. And that it’ll work out somehow, in the end. Maybe. Hopefully.

“I… I love you too,” Chanyeol said quietly. He sniffled, wiping away his tears on his sleeves. He lurched towards the driver’s seat to give Yura a hug, and he was met with no resistance, his older sister immediately embracing him. Chanyeol spent a few seconds in her warmth, glad that he was able to trust someone as deeply despite everything he went through.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and he couldn’t see it, but he knew Yura was smiling.

It’s good to have someone in such trying times.

And then someone honked loudly behind them, and they separated as they jumped in shock.

Green light.

“SOD OFF!” Yura shouted out of the window, raising a very particular finger before speeding off. They both laughed for a long time, and Chanyeol felt that everything would be okay, even if it’s just for a little bit.

* * *

Chanyeol placed his bloody jeans in the wash when they arrived home. He begrudgingly took a call from Kim Minseok of a scheduled visit within the next few days, but otherwise he was just thankful that he was home. He was meant to ask where Yura had kept the gun, but… he supposed that’s a question to ask another day.

As thanks for saving his ass and not handing him to the authorities, Chanyeol cooked lunch for them both. Yura shortly fell asleep on the couch, probably tired from the whole ordeal. Just to repay her kindness, Chanyeol set about cleaning the house.

He was in the middle of changing the sheets in his own room when his window was suddenly pelted—something he hasn’t experienced in a while. He instinctively put everything down and opened the window to be met with 12 silver piercings reflecting onto his face, its bearer rested on a beaten-up gray Chevrolet.

Chanyeol was immediately hit with the memory of yesterday, and his heart sank. Jongdae’s bloodied figure floated past his mind, as well as the additional silver bijou that now rested on his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut.

 _No_ , Chanyeol mouthed, unsure how much Yura was able to hear from downstairs. The face of Byun Baekhyun looked up at him—pleading, somehow. He hasn’t said a single word, yet Chanyeol could infer what he’s trying to communicate _just from his eyes._ Fuck, maybe he’s making it all up by now. Despite Chanyeol’s clear repetitive communications of “no”, Byun Baekhyun persisted, looking up at him like a lost puppy, expecting Chanyeol to guide him.

“Fucking hell,” Chanyeol retracted from the window, putting his hands behind his head. He’s been in enough trouble for one day, and that landed him in a mess. It’s really best not to land himself into another one, but…

He looks around. Passing through the front door wasn’t an option—he’s not sure how much of a light sleeper Yura is. Well, alternatively, he could also ignore Baekhyun, but…

He sighed, quickly visiting downstairs to fetch a pair of shoes. He had half a mind to attempt going out of the front door, but that thing can be real noisy. In the end, he climbed out the window of his bedroom, hoisting himself up and out. He rested onto the roof of the porch and made his way down from there, jumping to land himself right before Baekhyun’s knees.

“What? You’re gonna say sorry?” Chanyeol brushed himself off, trying to look at him in the eyes. As always, it was Chanyeol who had to look away—Baekhyun’s eyes still shone too strong, too sharp; a razor gaze a little distance away from his skin. Chanyeol used his height to his advantage instead—still he found himself shrinking under Baekhyun’s presence.

“I’m done. Whatever little fucking cult you have, I don’t want to be a part of it,” Chanyeol backs off, raising his hands, “What I saw last night, I’m not going to say anything to the cops. And it’s been fun, I’ll give you that. But I don’t want to implicate myself with—” Chanyeol gestured to his earrings, “—what you’ve done. What everyone else has done.”

Baekhyun simply looked at him.

Somehow, Chanyeol knew all the words he was saying.

“How the hell would _I_ know it’s a bodycount? A display of how shameful you should be for all the times you made the wrong choice and unwillingly caused death? What proof do you have for it?” Chanyeol demanded, “How do I know you’re just not luring me into a trap? How do I know you’re not just—”

Chanyeol was stunned into silence as he felt Baekhyun’s hand gently cup his cheek. He stands, dumbstruck, in awe of Baekhyun’s delicate touch—almost like a ghost. Chanyeol didn’t know what charm he had; but Baekhyun was able to bend him at will, able to quieten his thoughts with just a touch. Baekhyun’s hand was removed shortly thereafter, and the boy went inside his car.

“Don’t think you could just fool me into thinking you’re just as vulnerable as I am!” Chanyeol shouted, but his heart hammered against his chest. Butterflies, all over his fucking stomach. He didn’t even know why. He chalked it up to nervousness. He didn’t want it to be _anything_ other than nervousness.

Baekhyun however, didn’t drive away. He sat there, hands on the steering wheel, staring at Chanyeol through the window as if he was expecting the former to get in. Chanyeol growls, rolling his eyes—but somehow still finds himself getting seated in Baekhyun’s car.

“Right. Are you driving me into a ditch to get rid of my body, or are you showing me a mass burial site of all the people you’ve killed?” Chanyeol scoffed, but Baekhyun was unreactive. The car drove off, and, in the silence, Chanyeol found himself entertaining his own thoughts.

Jongdae’s bloodied form was still fresh in his mind—but Jongdae’s guilt was a stronger image still. The shame and disappointment weighing the room that day was uncharacteristic of a victorious manslaughter. Maybe it was true—that each little piece of silver was a reminder of the sins they’ve committed. It’s a weird thing, considering that they were all breaking the law by drug trade anyway—so why bother reminding yourself of your guilts?

Chanyeol looked at Baekhyun and his twelve silver piercings—only six visible from the side. Twelve bodies must be a horrible thing to bear. Still, Chanyeol could not fathom the possibility that he was sitting next to someone who killed twelve different people. Twelve! Assuming it was all in self-defense, perhaps Baekhyun could be pardoned, but…

“Where are we going?” Chanyeol looked up from his lap, so engrossed in his own thoughts that he didn’t realise they were already out of the neighbourhood. Baekhyun had pulled up onto a parking lot. There was a huge merry-go-round not too far in the distance, and a looming ferris wheel…

“You’re taking me out on a date,” Chanyeol looked at him pointedly, jaw slack, “to apologise?”

Baekhyun said nothing. He simply went out of the car and Chanyeol just had to ball up the many questions he had inside his head, following suit. Carnival music slowly floated into his ears, following Baekhyun that was slowly being swallowed up by a mass of people.

“God, seriously. Fuck you,” Chanyeol hissed as he caught up to him, but he couldn’t lie and say that he wasn’t pleased. Turns out Chanyeol still had the ability to be excited, after all.

It’s impossible to communicate with Baekhyun—he had a mind of his own. That boy wandered _anywhere_ he pleases, going from crane machines to staring at rides and looking at people buying cotton candy. Chanyeol had to catch up, because Baekhyun has a tendency of disappearing into the void.

“You know you can go on rides instead of just staring at them, right?” Chanyeol wheezed out as he caught up to Baekhyun, only to run after him once more as the boy sprinted towards the merry-go-round. Baekhyun paid for both of their tickets, vaguely pointing at Chanyeol’s lanky running figure at the ticketmaster—how he bought them without speaking was anyone’s guess. Baekhyun promptly climbs onto a plastic horse, sitting on it backwards. Chanyeol got onto one next to him, rolling his eyes when he saw that his feet reached the bottom of the floor.

The ride soon started up, and they found themselves spinning and buoying on their horses. Chanyeol thought it was, well, lame—but when he looked at Baekhyun, the latter seemed to be content. His face seemed to relax, arms crossed against his chest, the lights of the carousel reflecting onto his pale skin. The wind softly billows past his hair, and Chanyeol thought he looked so…

 _Oh god, no. No fucking way_ , Chanyeol tore his eyes off of Baekhyun, holding his chest. His heart was _hammering_ against his hand. And he couldn’t stop it, either. It wasn’t panic. He wasn’t seeing anything unreal. Yet…

He looked at Baekhyun once more, and his heart seemed to beat twice faster. _Fuck. Fuck!_

The ride stopped, and Chanyeol found himself staring at Baekhyun, noticing the features he saw so many times but hasn’t paid much attention to. How could he have just noticed the petiteness of his nose… the curl of his eyelashes.... the dusty, pale pink on his cheeks? Chanyeol couldn’t believe himself. _This is fucking outrageous. I’m… I’m—_

Baekhyun got off the horse, not noticing—or pretending not to notice—how Chanyeol looked at him. He was already running off to another ride and Chanyeol simply watched him go, a sheepish smile shakily making its way onto his mouth—

 _Oh, you_.

They went through many rides, Baekhyun paying for every penny. And for each ride, Chanyeol felt his heart going faster and faster, his smile wider and wider. _I’m just happy because I’m outside doing what normal teens do_ , Chanyeol tried to reason—but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that he was practically _beaming_ with every sight of Baekhyun’s face. It wasn’t like Baekhyun was reacting back—but he felt so… close, so… comfortable. And in the midst of a fast-spinning teacup ride, Chanyeol found that he was just so, utterly in…

“You ever went on a ferris wheel before?” Chanyeol pointed at the large structure a few yards away, and Baekhyun’s blank face told him no. It wasn’t too hard to convince Baekhyun to get on it either. Soon they queued for a line and got themselves into a tub, and they slowly ascended up…

The view was beautiful. The skies were blue and purple, edging into night. Chanyeol could see almost everything from this height—the people, the other rides—he could spot Baekhyun’s beaten-up Chevrolet in the distance, too. The best view—Chanyeol embarrassedly admitted—was Baekhyun’s face; he seemed so genuinely in awe that Chanyeol saw his emotions shining through for the first time, his lips parted in awe, cheeks rosy from the wind. For a boy that came from hell, Baekhyun seemed so innocent, excited that he was able to see the expanse of the city from a height above—and oh God, Chanyeol could no longer hold back.

So Chanyeol held his hand.

It seemed to puzzle Baekhyun, at first. He looked at his hand, as if wondering why it was there in the first place. He then saw Chanyeol’s hand placed atop of it and—as if embarrassed—he looked away, but Chanyeol already saw the blush that crept onto his face.

“Has he cracked up?” Chanyeol teased, his voice shaky from the butterflies in his stomach, “Has Mr. Stone finally opened up?”

Baekhyun’s gaze briefly flittered towards him, but it’s too late to take it back. There it was: a smile. It was small, but it was as clear as day—his lips were delicately curled, and he undoubtedly seemed pleased. Slowly, he intertwined his fingers with Chanyeol’s, filling in the gaps, and, and—oh—his eyes—his eyes were so beautiful—it was the universe and all of its exploding stars condensed into such pretty pretty pupils, and God was Chanyeol so hopelessly lost in their void.

Chanyeol could not stop his face from inching closer, magnetized towards the Boy Who Fell From Heaven. Baekhyun wasted no time in closing the gap between them, leaning in, and Chanyeol could feel the soft billow of his breath before their lips met in a gentle kiss.

Chanyeol had never felt so free from the burdens of life; for a moment, he forgot about everything. His trauma, his past, the evils of the world—it was just him, and this strange, peculiar boy named Byun Baekhyun, and they were embraced amongst the purple skies at the ascend, and it felt like nothing could ever go wrong.

Chanyeol was breathless when they parted.

“... Wow,” Chanyeol whispered, a grin spread onto his face. Baekhyun had on this small little smile, their foreheads pressed, and the boy had his cheeks dusted with pink. And Chanyeol thought— _whoa, is this what life feels like?_

Soon they got off, and they made their way back to the car. Chanyeol wasn’t sure who pushed the buttons first—him or Baekhyun—but somehow they’ve shoved themselves at the backseat, windows fogged with every breath. Baekhyun was seated atop of his lap, kissing Chanyeol fervently, fingers buried in his locks. _Nothing_ else mattered other than Baekhyun’s mouth moving against his, hands cupping his jaw, locked into some feverish desperation. Then pretty soon Chanyeol glided his hand underneath Baekhyun’s top, and then…

Chanyeol felt giddy, on the verge of dizziness. He was getting nervous, but it was all for the wrong reasons. It didn’t feel right. Suddenly the car felt too stuffy, and everything just felt wrong, wrong, wrong. Chanyeol caught flash of Baekhyun’s piercings, then he remembered Jongdae’s quivering figure covered in blood—then out of the corner of his eye, Chanyeol saw _him_ — _he’s there_ — _he’s waiting, ready to open the door_ —

“S-Stop,” Chanyeol exclaimed suddenly, grabbing Baekhyun’s shoulders and forcing him away. It was so sudden that even Baekhyun reacted, and Chanyeol would’ve laughed at his puzzled face if the circumstances were different—but everything felt like it was shrinking and bending and going horribly, horribly twisted.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Chanyeol muttered shakily, “I—I don’t think I’m ready.”

Chanyeol pushed the hair from his forehead, perspired in fear. He sniffled, looking away with certain shame.

“It’s not your fault,” he mumbled, hating the way his eyes teared up almost immediately. He looked at Baekhyun, expecting the boy to look at him with disgust—Baekhyun was anything but. In fact, his face had returned into its passive, unreactive state, and Chanyeol felt grateful for the first time that Baekhyun was unresponsive.

Baekhyun climbed onto the front seat and drove him home, Chanyeol still perched at the back seat, unsure whether he was able to face anyone. He looked at his lap the whole time, staring at the palm of his hands. He hated it. He hated how every time he grasped _just_ a little bit of that carefree life, he had to be grappled back down by his demons. Every time he has it within his grasp, it leaves his hand, trickling down between his fingers like water.

_Fuck. FUCK!_

“ _FUCK!_ ” Chanyeol exploded, smashing his head onto the headrest, squeezing his eyes shut. He had such a normal life and everything had to fuck up. _He_ fucked it up. _He_ fucked up his life, _he_ made him fucked up, _fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU_. _FUCK YOU!_

The next time Chanyeol opened his eyes, Baekhyun was staring at him. He had somehow taken the headrest out of its seat and he’d smashed it against the window, the seat littered with cracked glass. Chanyeol looked at his surroundings, open-mouthed, shocked at his own doing that he doesn’t even have a memory of.

Looks like they’ve stopped in front of Yura’s house. Despite the wreckage, Baekhyun doesn’t seem angry. Well—actually, Baekhyun doesn’t seem like he’s feeling anything at all, simply staring at him blankly. Chanyeol looked down at his lap apologetically.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Chanyeol said hoarsely, “I have to go. Please don’t come back.”

He exited the car as fast as he could, his brain whirring inside his head. Everything seemed like it was being shuffled around like a number slider, moving around until it was unrecognizable.

Static.

Static.

Static.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Quarantined? Me too ]: Sorry for the late update, but I'm here now!
> 
> Please upvote [or site equivalent] and comment :D I reply to every single one, and I promise I don't bite!


	11. The Break

_“I don't even fucking care though  
_ _I'm probably gonna die  
_ _Like everybody else  
_ _Is that such a fucking lie?”_

_hell is where i dreamt of u and woke up alone - Blackbear_

* * *

“Breakfast.”

Chanyeol jerked awake when Yura hit his head with a magazine, his blurry vision spotting a bowl of cereal being placed on the coffee table next to him. He groaned, sitting up on what seemed to be the couch. All of his joints felt stiff. He couldn’t remember how he managed to crawl up here.

“What…” Chanyeol breathed in. He was still in his jeans and shoes. He scratched his head and looked back at the door, wondering how he’d made it here…

“Were you drinking?” Yura squinted at him, “You came home last night and just fell unconscious on the couch. Couldn’t wake you up for dinner.”

Chanyeol remembered—he was… was he on a date? And then… fuck, he smashed Baekhyun’s car window. Then he must’ve staggered home, somehow, without alerting Yura too much. Yura didn’t seem to have any idea of what had happened, but then again—she didn’t need to know. Chanyeol only looked away.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to drink while you’re on meds,” Yura brushed her hair, tying it up in a ponytail. Looks like she bought it. Not Chanyeol’s fault she suggests herself her own scenarios.

“Mmhm.”

“You’re not drinking because you’re having problems, are you?”

“No,” Chanyeol mumbled. He tried to think of a longer answer—”It was a lightweight day.”

“Try not to. Not a good idea with your current state,” she patted his back, to which Chanyeol only mumbled in response. She bid him goodbye and left out the door—presumably to work.

Chanyeol hovered over the bowl of cereal, scoffing when he saw there was no spoon. Stumbling into the kitchen, he opened the drawers, trying to look for one—and saw a firearm, tucked into one of them.

It was the gun. The gun Jongdae dropped that he picked up.

Yura must’ve hidden it here when he had his last episode. He shrugged and closed the drawer, searching for a spoon still before something that sounded like a blast sounded in his head.

**“DOOR. OPEN THE DOOR. OPEN THE DOOR. OPEN THE DOOR.”**

“Jesus fucking Christ, shut up,” Chanyeol slapped the side of his head a few times, rolling his eyes. The voice didn’t shut up—instead, it quietened, repeating the phrase, whispering this time. Chanyeol took a deep breath, groaning, knowing that it won’t quieten unless he did as he told. He marched towards the front door, and— _what the fuck?_ —opened it to Baekhyun standing on the porch. Chanyeol didn’t even have time to react before he barged in, marching upstairs.

The voice was silent now. Chanyeol frowned.

“What the hell…” Chanyeol muttered, before he shook his head. He closed the door in front of him and jogged up the stairs, finding Baekhyun already sitting cross-legged on the bed. At least he had the decency to take his shoes off first before invading Chanyeol’s personal space.

“I told you not to come back,” Chanyeol said, already exasperated, but made no attempts to kick him out. He sat a few inches away from Baekhyun, the latter looking at him so intensely that Chanyeol had to look down just to stay in his presence. But why—why on Earth—would Baekhyun come back, after what Chanyeol did? He smashed the window of his car. Did he want an apology?

“I’m sorry for breaking your car window,” Chanyeol grimaced. He waited for a response. As usual—nothing was returned. 

Chanyeol—with an urge he suddenly couldn’t control—cupped the sides of his face. He felt cold—so cold that Baekhyun took a shallow breath from how Chanyeol’s fingertips felt like fire against his skin, in a good kind of way. It felt… raw. As if Chanyeol was touching the physical manifestation of reality. And suddenly, Baekhyun seemed as if was the dirt, the anchor, the rope—everything that kept Chanyeol grounded in a world where he constantly felt like he was drifting.

Chanyeol might’ve held his face too long. He was so fascinated with the feeling of being grounded that Baekhyun’s brows furrowed, as if to say _what?_ in confusion. He looked cute this way, Chanyeol thought. So curious and starry-eyed. Chanyeol couldn’t look directly at his eyes still, but for a different reason this time; if he looked, he was afraid that he’d get hopelessly lost in them, drowned to death in the colour of his irises.

He simply couldn’t believe Baekhyun was real. Or at least such a magnificent manifestation that his brain made up. Baekhyun felt like a rock, but at the same time—he felt too ethereal to exist. Chanyeol was quickly obsessed with Baekhyun’s reality. _Is he an image? A hallucination of what I’ve yearned for so long?_ Chanyeol simply had to make sure. Chanyeol brushed his hands across Baekhyun’s cheeks, feeling the daintiness of his nose, the single strands of hair that fell around his temples—Baekhyun seemed so amused by this and clasped his hands to Chanyeol’s wrists, stopping the latter in his tracks. Chanyeol exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. His thumb rested delicately on Baekhyun’s bottom lip, and it felt so plush to his fingertips. Chanyeol wanted to kiss him badly.

And he realised—he could.

Chanyeol leaned in, but hesitated. He’d kissed him before—what was so different now? He cursed inwardly, realising that his past was holding him back. _Should I ask? Is he okay with it?_ He felt like a fool, but his body nagged him to make sure. Baekhyun was all too ready to receive him, but he could see that Chanyeol had hesitated. They were close enough to feel each other's breaths on their cheeks—but Chanyeol couldn't muster the strength to carry on. He had to ask.

"Is—" Chanyeol blurted out. He felt embarrassed, "Is this okay?"

Baekhyun—bless him—seemed to understand his concern.

He nodded.

It felt like another first kiss, somehow. Soon Chanyeol felt Baekhyun's arms envelop him, and he felt their lips graze. Chanyeol closed his eyes, and bliss engulfed him as he met his mouth. They kiss as if the other was about to crumble, gently indulging the other’s interests, their mouths meeting softly in a lock. It felt like safety; like comfort—like Baekhyun was the last good thing on this Earth somehow, and Chanyeol wanted to stay in this moment forever. 

They slowly pulled away after some time, resting against each other’s foreheads. Baekhyun’s arms embraced Chanyeol’s frame, while the latter had his hands cup the other’s face. Chanyeol basked in his presence, feeling his hair tickle his nose. Still, despite Baekhyun’s realness, Chanyeol couldn’t figure out his purpose.

So he asked, perhaps for the hundredth time since they’ve met.

“Why?” he whispered quietly, as if not to startle the other. Baekhyun didn’t react, and Chanyeol simply lowered his head in disappointment. He looked at him again.

“Why are you here?” Chanyeol murmured— _and why do I keep allowing it?_ he added to himself, “Why are you protecting me?”

Baekhyun doesn’t answer. His face didn’t change, but he felt… somber, somehow. Sympathetic. He felt like he wanted to say so many things, but Chanyeol’s sure he hasn’t uttered a word in a while. It could easily have been years. Maybe his whole life, if that’s really why Baekhyun hasn’t spoken a single word. Still—he refuses to communicate. Rather than being frustrated, Chanyeol dropped the question and kissed him again; this time a little deeper.

The next time he pulled away, Chanyeol lifted up his shirt. Baekhyun simply went along with it, helping Chanyeol pull it over his head. Then—Chanyeol couldn’t believe how he’d mustered the courage—he took off his own shirt, hearing it drop to the carpet. Chanyeol found his thumbs looping at the hem of Baekhyun’s shorts, and that too was discarded. So was his own jeans, and the rest. They sat stark on Chanyeol’s bed, with nothing to hide their bodies—and immediately, Chanyeol felt self-conscious.

Out of instinct, Chanyeol crossed his arms to hide his scars, trying to shrink himself as much as possible to conceal the angry scar across his stomach. He felt ashamed somehow, regretting that his body looked the way it was—until he noticed Baekhyun’s. He had scars uglier than Chanyeol could ever envision; actually, Chanyeol didn’t know where one started and where one ended. It was lines and splotches and spots across his body, dark and pale, and he too could see Baekhyun reclusing, reluctant to show what his body had endured.

Chanyeol was sure Baekhyun had seen the Devil himself, with a body seemingly so destroyed.

Yet, he wasn’t… afraid, or ashamed, to see the other in such a state. He felt foolish. Why was he so embarrassed of his own body when he felt that the other’s body was perfectly fine? Baekhyun’s scarred body felt painful to look at, but there was no prejudice. Seeing Baekhyun shrink away, Chanyeol felt the courage to graze the scar on his own stomach—as if to accept it, in his own terms. Baekhyun, rather dumbfounded for a reaction, saw this and slowly held his fingers against the ugliest scar on his body—the rope marks against his neck.

Chanyeol scooted closer towards him, pecking his lips. He wasn’t sure what to say—but he wanted to comfort him, somehow. Baekhyun, understanding his assurance, returned the favour and kissed his lips once, and Chanyeol knew he wanted to smile.

Chanyeol’s eyes moved to the last thing that clung onto Baekhyun’s body—the twelve pieces of silver displayed across his ears. He grazed his thumb across them, feeling Baekhyun’s shuddering breath as he did so. Gently, one by one, Chanyeol took them off. He unclasped them from his ear and placed them on his table neatly, one by one. Soon, all of his piercings were placed away, and Chanyeol looked at Byun Baekhyun in his truly bare state.

He looked… plain. Not in a sense that Baekhyun was simple, but without his piercings—he just looked like a boy. The scars on his body were harder to understand, but here he was: Baekhyun in his starkest, holes in his ears where they remained unoccupied without their jewellery. He just—he just felt like home, somehow, and Chanyeol felt, finally, that he could trust him.

Chanyeol kissed him. Again. Then again. Then again. It felt different this time—it felt like Chanyeol _wanted_ something, and Baekhyun simply gave it to him. It felt like a fever and, acknowledging how his body heated up, Chanyeol embraced Baekhyun’s body and pushed him against the mattress, the bed creaking under their weight.

It felt feverish. Their mouths were locked, evidently not getting enough of each other, fiercely fighting to satiate their hunger. Baekhyun’s hands were all over him, running down his spine then embracing him closer, pliant to the warmth that Chanyeol gave him. His submission drove Chanyeol absolutely euphoric, kissing the other so fervently that both started gasping for breath. To Chanyeol it felt like he was suffocating—but for absolutely all the right reasons.

Chanyeol left Baekhyun’s lips, giving him one final peck before kissing his jaw, then his throat. Chanyeol could feel him tremble—and realised that Baekhyun had completely trusted him with his unguarded, vulnerable self. Chanyeol felt moved somehow, amazed how Baekhyun had completely opened up to him, trusting that whatever Chanyeol did to him—it would be good. 

A whimper follows as Chanyeol kisses his neck—then a gasp when Chanyeol rests his lips on the other’s collarbones. Baekhyun had no guard; he was open for Chanyeol to touch, to feel—as deep as he wants. Maybe that was what love felt like: comfort and safety in feeling absolutely vulnerable; to be able to be pushed without feeling the need to shove. And frankly Chanyeol truly felt like it—in love—with him. Boy who endured hell with scars resembling tiger stripes meets boy whose embers began to soften as he descends from the inferno. Perhaps—Chanyeol hoped—that Baekhyun was his square one. The starting block before the sprint. The run before the leap. The glide before the flight. Chanyeol sought for safe haven and it was right here, in front of his eyes—and it was a boy, whose silent lips spoke so much more comfort that Chanyeol had never before received in his life.

A murmur left Baekhyun’s mouth, and Chanyeol felt his hand find purchase in his hair, pulling him in closer still. Chanyeol took his time in kissing all of his wounds, mouthing them delicately, easing the other of his nervousness. It wasn’t like their first time, where every movement was bewildered with sharp edges and hurried movements, moving way too fast to avoid heartfelt contact—no. Now, Chanyeol wanted to close the gap between them, and unite in one shared solace; something Baekhyun was willing to open himself up to, as Chanyeol gilded lower below his navel.

Chanyeol used to squirm at the mention of oral sex. It made him feel disgusting, because any previous experience he had with it—well, to put it bluntly—was with a man he never wanted to see again. Now, he felt… no panic. No slow boil of his blood, no shame that tugs at his heartstrings. He simply felt the nervousness of performing—and a normal amount of it, too. He’s flustered at the sight of Baekhyun’s arousal, the latter gently holding his hair, heaving with soft breaths. The smallest whimper emits from him as Chanyeol touches it with his mouth. It felt good to be able to do things _he_ wanted, at _his_ own volition, at _his_ own time.

Baekhyun let out these small noises as Chanyeol moved his mouth, body laid on the mattress, Chanyeol nestled comfortably between his legs. It was the only thing that assured Chanyeol he had a voice—and he certainly wasn’t deaf—so Baekhyun refuses to speak out of choice. Why he did so, Chanyeol would never know, but what he _certainly_ knew was the fact that Baekhyun had let himself be so vulnerable to be able to tell Chanyeol of his enjoyment. The little squirm of his body, the slight arch of his back, the gasps made through parted lips—it was such a contrast to the steely-eyed boy who looked like he’d just fought God and won, with nonexistent people-skills that left you guessing what his intentions were.

Eventually Chanyeol moved away and kissed his mouth again; a slow, sweet ministration of lips and tongue, in which Baekhyun’s arms folded across his back and Chanyeol cupped his jaws with his hands. Chanyeol would never think Baekhyun would look like such an angel—a cherub without his wings, kissed into existence to perfection, down to his ugliest and most ruthless scars. Sweet nothings encased in a boy who bore twelve glinting piercings. 

Then came the parting of Baekhyun’s legs, and Chanyeol became too aware of his own arousal prodding at his thigh. He’d lowered himself onto Baekhyun, everything in place… except—he couldn’t do it. He’s afraid. What if it hurts? What if Baekhyun didn’t like it? And—oh, God forbid—what if he inflicted the same pain his father did to him? What if—

But it seemed as if Baekhyun had seen his worries from far away. He framed Chanyeol’s face as if it was a delicate thing, stroking his thumb across his cheek—and Chanyeol could read his eyes, loud and clear: _it’s okay. It will be okay._ And so Chanyeol slid his hands across the expanse of his thighs and buried himself deep, closing his eyes to lull himself into a rhythmic bliss…

* * *

The rope scars on Baekhyun’s neck made Chanyeol curious.

It meant that—at some point, just like Chanyeol—he had enough of himself. That, or he had enough of the world, and he decided that he’d die by the ropes. Except he didn’t die, and now he had this scar for the rest of life to remind him: once upon a time, you did not want this life anymore. Now whether it was a remark of shame, or pride… Chanyeol would never know. And it’s not like he could ask.

Both of them were spent on the bedsheets, Baekhyun’s head tucked into Chanyeol’s shoulders, the former drawing circles on his chest. It felt good, to hold someone skin against skin, with nothing but the sheets to encase them. Baekhyun had been doing these motions now, tracing Chanyeol’s collarbones and the lines of his pectorals, then his ribs—which made Chanyeol splutter into laughter.

“Stop, it tickles,” Chanyeol grinned, and Baekhyun retracted his hand. His lips were curled—not a smile, but the beginnings of it. Maybe he had a few more wounds to heal before he could smile again with ease. It was the same with Chanyeol—it took meeting Sehun and his strange shenanigans before he could laugh again.

Chanyeol sighed, running his fingers through Baekhyun’s hair. The softness of his hair always surprised him—for someone who lived such a rough, squalid life, Baekhyun had hair like cashmere. Baekhyun buried himself onto Chanyeol’s hold, cuddling up to him… and Chanyeol felt… special. Baekhyun was finally opening up to him, finally admitting that he, too, sought warmth, comfort, affection…

“Baekhyun…” Chanyeol murmured, tracing the scars on his body. The other’s crystalline eyes looked to him, gazing softly—and Chanyeol experiences the rare moment of being able to look directly into them, lost in their depths… and Chanyeol was so dumbstruck for a moment that he paused before he continued: the same question, as he had asked last time.

“Why?” he whispered, twirling Baekhyun’s hair in his fingers. The smaller boy perched onto his elbows, as if inquiring him. Chanyeol swallowed.

“Why… me?” he muttered, resting his hand on Baekhyun’s nape, “Is it—Am I something you want to protect? Why? Why do you look for me—why do you chase after me?”

There is no answer, besides the gleam of his eyes. An empty answer that made more questions than it answered. 

Chanyeol sighed, and placed his hand once more on Baekhyun’s back. When he thought he’d finished tracing a scar, it led to another one, in a maze of lines. Some ran deep—others faint, healed over the years. Where one ends, another begins, and Chanyeol traced them, wondering which one was the first, and which one was the last.

“She used to whip me whenever I spoke,” Baekhyun murmured.

Chanyeol stopped.

 _She? Who? Who whipped you? You spoke? You_ spoke _?_ So many things ran through Chanyeol’s head at once it was impossible to process. He’d just witnessed the man whom he’d begged to speak for so many times—and he just did, and Chanyeol was left speechless. There was no preparation, no sign. No pretext as to why Baekhyun did what he had done just now. 

Baekhyun’s voice was… hoarse. He croaked it out, as if he’d never spoken in years—which was probably the case. He looked up at Chanyeol and, noticing his speechless stature, shyly retracted away, ashamed that he’d ever spoken—but Chanyeol pulled him closer, and stroked his hair. Chanyeol knew how it felt to be strangely looked at when he did something he hadn’t done for a long time, and it probably took so much out of Baekhyun just to utter those few words; so Chanyeol relaxed himself and put all the questions aside, reassuring Baekhyun that this— _he_ —was a safe place to be.

Perhaps it took so much out of Baekhyun that he slumped away from Chanyeol’s hold, sitting at the edge of the bed, the afternoon sunlight illuminating his scarred back. Slowly, he placed his shirt over his head, then the rest of his clothes. Carefully, he placed all of his piercings back together, each placed in its respective places. Then suddenly, Chanyeol knew him no longer—here was Mr. Stone, so far away from his grasp; and Chanyeol realised, he really, _really_ didn’t know much of the other, after all.

And just like that, Baekhyun left the room, without looking back. 

Chanyeol sat up, rubbing the nape of his neck. What made Baekhyun such a shell hard to crack? Why does he come and go as he pleases, demanding attention when he’d like it? One day Chanyeol thinks he’s got it all down, and the next he knows Baekhyun just as much as they’d initially met: a boy struck down by his mother’s car, whose avengement was pelting her vehicle with rocks. Now, Chanyeol started to think that _he_ was being toyed with, and—honestly, the more he thought about it—it made more sense. Every time they met up, it was for some sort of intimacy.

Chanyeol gripped the sheets.

Just another body. Just another person to toy with.

The doors downstairs slam, and Chanyeol made a point of chasing after him. Enough is fucking enough—he deserved some answers. Why the fuck is the guy throwing rocks at his mother fucking with him? Why has he got twelve piercings on his ears? And why does his cronies follow him around, without knowing what for? Why does only _he_ know the answer? It pissed Chanyeol to no fucking end, to think that he’s just some boytoy to fuck around with. And it pisses him off even more that Baekhyun refuses to give him the answer. 

_“Baekhyun!”_ he shouted, quickly scrambling into his clothes. He thundered down the steps, catching sight of Baekhyun’s hair—except he hasn’t gotten out of the house yet, and he’s standing still. That door being slammed—to Chanyeol’s horror—was his own sister, aghast, looking at Baekhyun in bewilderment.

_Fuck. She’s home early today?_

She had only discarded one of her heels, which meant that Baekhyun had stopped her in her tracks. They were staring at each other, dumbfounded—and Chanyeol didn’t know how to react, because both were deathly silent. The thing was—Yura was _staring_ right into Baekhyun’s eyes. And _nobody_ has been able to stare right into the depths of inferno without blinking. Yura… Yura was capable of doing it, and—and Baekhyun, he had an air of shame around him.

“You—” Yura raised her hand, an accusative finger raised at the boy from hell. Her eyes steeled, and Chanyeol could feel rage seep through the floor, rising up as it boils over. She was _furious_ ; Chanyeol knew, because she was often speechless when she was angered.

“You’ve got… some fucking _nerve…_ to step into this house,” Yura spoke in such a dangerous way, that even Chanyeol stepped back in recoil. Baekhyun didn’t answer, or react—maybe if he did, Yura would unleash some hell upon him that even _he_ couldn’t retaliate. Rather laughably—and perhaps quite Baekhyun-like—he stepped forward and walked past her, right through the door, closing it behind him. He didn’t look back. Chanyeol couldn’t see what his expression looked like.

Then, silence.

The Park siblings were used to communicating in silence. They understood each other at a level that required no words. Yet, now, the quietness yielded no message. There was nothing said. Chanyeol had a lower threshold for this, and so he got a little antsy and spoke first.

“You know him,” Chanyeol muttered, just loud enough to be heard. Yura crossed her arms. The thing was—she looked more defensive than angry, and suddenly something seemed very, very off.

“I told you to stay away from him. From _them_ ,” Yura fired back calmly. There’s no use in playing clueless on who’s ‘them’. Chanyeol stared at her, arms limply hanging by his sides.

“It’s not like I fucking asked for their company,” Chanyeol wrung his fingers together. Well—that’s throwing them under the bus a little, but it’s true—initially at least. _They_ were the ones who approached him. He just tagged along for the ride.

“I’ve _asked_ them _not_ to come near you—” Yura sighed, rubbing her face. Chanyeol frowned. Now, now— _she_ asked them not to come near him? That’s funny, because Chanyeol couldn’t recall Yura knowing them personally. She tried to hide her face, but Chanyeol already caught her mistake. There was something _deeply_ wrong here.

“You know _them_ ,” Chanyeol recycles his statement. Yura threw him a defensive look.

“It was for the best. But I didn’t ask them to go anywhere near you.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about, Yura? Wait, hold on—” Chanyeol laughed murkily, pacing around the room, pulling at his hair. She’d just admitted conspiracy behind his back. He didn’t know how to react, so he laughed and laughed until he couldn’t recognise his own voice. He smiled as he looked up, looking at Yura with disbelief, “What the fuck’s going on?”

“I—” Yura took a deep breath, “It was for your safety.”

“That doesn’t answer my fucking question.”

“I _personally_ told them to look out for you. To protect you,” Yura said exasperatedly, and a memory flashed past Chanyeol’s brain. Now, what Junmyeon said… had a lot more context.

_“We want you around to protect you.”_

_“Protect me from what?”_

_“You know.”_

_“I don’t.”_

“To protect me,” Chanyeol scoffed, scratching the back of his head, “I’m not a fucking baby, Yura.”

But then she was silent for a long time.

“I didn’t want to tell you this. I wish I didn’t have to,” Yura pinched the bridge of her nose, running through her hair, “Sit down.”

“Yura—”

“Chanyeol, you want to sit down. Believe me,” Yura stressed, and Chanyeol took a deep breath. He sauntered into the living room, really having no clue as to what Yura was about to pour into him. Yura wasn’t the type to keep secrets. She was always so blunt, never tactful. To hear that she was hiding something from him—it didn’t feel right.

“Sit down,” Yura repeated, and Chanyeol took a seat on the couch opposite her. She seemed as if she was trying to search for the right words to say, and that made Chanyeol worried. Usually she spoke things straight as it had been conceived in her mind. To see her filter her thoughts is worrying him.

“Chanyeol—”

“Skip the bullshit,” Chanyeol interrupted her, “I came here to close some doors, instead I’ve opened new ones. I need some answers, and they won’t tell me. So—”

He looked at her, half-afraid, half-enraged—”What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m sorry you have to hear these words come out of my mouth. You were supposed to come here to start a new life. I’ve been trying my best to bury your past behind you but I had no choice but to take extreme measures,” she said thickly, her voice beginning to croak. She sounded as if she wanted to cry, and Chanyeol didn’t like the words she was saying.

“Our father—”

“No. No, I don’t want to hear it,” Chanyeol stood up, immediately pacing the room afterwards. Yura closed her eyes, pained.

“Please sit down.”

“I don’t want to fucking hear it,” Chanyeol drawled. It sounded as if his voice was beginning to echo forever, bouncing off the walls. If Chanyeol had bothered to look back, he would’ve seen the tears that started pooling in her eyes.

“He’s not in jail. Mama bailed him out,” Yura whispered, her voice so low that one would have to strain to hear it—but Chanyeol heard it like a bell being shaken within the very confines of his skull. 

**“I THINK SHE SHOULD STOP TALKING.”**

**“STOP LISTENING TO HER.”**

**“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT ANYMORE.”**

“I’m sorry I lied. I thought it was for the best,” Yura sobbed, covering her face, “But I—I couldn’t let you be here unguarded. Unprotected. Mama wouldn’t listen to me. She posted the bail. I couldn’t—I couldn’t imagine what would happen to you. I had to ask for help. But they weren’t supposed to interfere so closely with your life—”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Stop talking.” Chanyeol warbled, his voice coming out all wobbly and gnarled. He paced around the room faster now, pulling strands out of his hair, groaning, growling. There were ants everywhere. It was crawling in and out of his ears, worming underneath his fingernails, dotting his body. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I lied. I thought it would give you some peace—”

**“STOP LISTENING TO HER.”**

**“YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYONE. YOU SHOULD MAKE HER STOP TALKING.”**

**“SHE CONSPIRED AGAINST YOU. SHE HAS MORE LIES UP HER SLEEVE.”**

“Chanyeol, please. Look at me. Chanyeol—”

“They said you should stop talking,” Chanyeol whipped around. His steps felt dizzy—where was up? Where was the front? Everything felt like it was flying. Something crawled out of the television. There was someone knocking on the front door.

“They? Who?” Yura whispered, her eyes wide with fear. She stood up, approaching him slowly, reaching out towards him. Chanyeol was moving his head around rapidly, trying to locate the screeching sound inside his brain. It was like a nail being dragged against metal, the sound magnified so many times that it pierced so many parts of his brain. 

“Chanyeol, you’re panicking right now,” Yura whispered, “You’re safe here. You’re with me. Please sit d—”

**“SHE LIED.”**

**“YOU’RE NOT SAFE ANYMORE.”**

**“RUN. RUN. RUN. RUN. RUN. RUN. RUN.”**

“You lied to me. I’m not safe here anymore. I have to run away from here,” Chanyeol croaked, his voice monotonic. He was rocking back and forth, holding the sides of his head, walking back and forth in irregular steps. 

“Chanyeol, I think we have to start calming you down, okay?” Yura reached for his hands, to which Chanyeol screamed in response, backing away to the corner of the wall. He was hyperventilating, breaking out in a sweat, rocking back and forth and sobbing, groaning, yelling—it seemed as if he was trying to say something, but the words weren’t coming out. 

“I’m going to call Minseok, okay? You’re going to be fine, Chanyeol. You’re safe with me.”

“No. No. No. No. No. No no no,” Chanyeol chanted, gasping. He froze when he heard footsteps echoing in the hallway, the front door creaking open. He lowered his eyes and saw polished shoes, and tidy black slacks… then a tie, shirt—

“Please stop. Please stop. I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this anymore, please, please, please—” Chanyeol sobbed, hugging his knees, burrowing his head between it. He couldn’t hear anything—there was white noise inside of his head, spilling out of his ears and mouth, flooding the room with static. The furniture began to float away with the noise, drifting in and out of view as they bobbed in the waves. Yura seemed so far away, calling out his name, her voice as if echoing in a cave…

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to,” Chanyeol gasped. He waded through the sea, the television floating past him. Chanyeol shakily opened the drawer and grasped the gun, disabling the safety with trembling fingers, pointing it upwards against his chin.

“Chanyeol, no,” Yura whispered, hands in front of her as if trying to grasp him, “Put—Put it away. Put it away, Chanyeol.”

**“PULL THE TRIGGER! PULL THE TRIGGER!”  
**

**“YOU’LL BE FREE, CHANYEOL! NO MORE HURT, NO MORE SUFFERING.”**

**“PULL IT! DO IT NOW! NOW, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! NOW!”**

“It’s the only way out,” Chanyeol spoke raspily, tears pouring down his cheeks. He gasped through his sobs, his body trembling, sweat upon his temples, “It’s the only way.”

His hand clenched on the gun, and his finger stiffened. He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m obliged to say, very sorry for the months delay—but pretty much every chapter I’ve said this, so it’s a little redundant to say it, ahaha.
> 
> I do hope the wait is worthwhile, and I do hope that the chapter brings some satisfaction to how long you had to wait. I’m really thankful for your continued support and I can’t wait to see you guys in the next chapter! Your comments and upvotes [or whatever site equivalent] encourage me a ton—do consider leaving one, if you’re able to <3
> 
> Lots of love, ‘til next time!


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